J 


THE  PAGAN 


THE    PAGAN 


BY 

GORDON  ARTHUR  SMITH 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,  1913,  1914,  1915,  1916,  1917,  1919,  1920,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   PAGAN 1 

THE   PAGAN 3 

CITY  OF  LIGHTS 38 

THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  Cup      ....  67 

FEET  OF  GOLD 100 

THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 138 

TROPIC  MADNESS 177 

JEANNE,  THE  MAID 218 

EVERY   MOVE 249 

LETITIA 283 

A  YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 315 

THE  RETURN  .                 345 


CG2767 


THE  PAGAN 


THE    PAGAN 

WHEN  Maxime  Taillandy,  senior  partner  of 
the  firm  of  Taillandy,  Mason  &  Co.,  had  settled 
himself  comfortably  in  his  bed  to  die  he  sum 
moned  to  him  Peter  Mason,  the  son  of  the 
junior  partner.  Previously,  devout  Catholic 
that  he  was,  he  had  summoned  a  priest.  Peter 
was  an  American  lawyer  in  his  thirties,  whom 
the  firm  employed  to  extricate  it  from  legal  en 
tanglements,  both  in  New  York  and  in  Paris, 
for  the  company  was  international  and  not 
averse  from  making  money  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic. 

4  Maxime  Taillandy,  having  lived  honestly 
though  successfully  for  threescore  years  and 
ten,  was  not  afraid  to  die.  If  he  regretted  any 
thing  it  was  perhaps  the  fact  that  he  was  dying 
in  the  midst  of  the  firm's  most  prosperous  year; 
since  the  firm  was  to  him  as  a  babe  to  its  mother 
— it  had  been  born  of  his  brain  and  fed  by  his 
hands;  he  had  tended  it  in  its  illnesses  and  had 
rejoiced  in  its  health. 

;  Thus  it  followed  that  his  daughter,  Marthe, 
although  she  kept  his  house  and  shared  his 
meals,  was  almost  a  stranger  to  him,  while 
Peter  Mason,  on  the  contrary,  inasmuch  as  he 
was  intimately  connected  with  the  firm  and  its 
fortunes,  stood  well-nigh  as  his  son. 

3 


THE   PAGAN 


"Peter,"  said  Taillandy,  from  his  huge,  can 
opied  bed,  "I  have  several  things  to  say  before 
I  become  silent  forever.  God  has  granted  me 
a  long  life  and  a  prosperous  one,  and  a  clear 
brain  at  the  last.  Also,  I  am  dying  at  home 
and  I  shall  breathe  with  my  last  breath  the 
air  of  my  beautiful  France.  For  all  this  I  am 
thankful.  Nevertheless,  few  of  us  can  leave 
this  pleasant  world  without  an  anxious  thought 
or  two  for  the  future  of  the  persons  and  things 
that  have  been  dear  to  us." 

The  old  man  paused,  and  Peter,  finding  no 
reply,  nodded  sympathetically. 

"Peter,"  Taillandy  went  on  after  a  little, 
"I  once  had  a  son.  You  did  not  know  that, 
•did  you?  Few  do.  He  was  not  like  me — on 
the  contrary,  where  I  was  black  he  was  white, 
and  where  I  was  white  he  was  black.  Between 
us  we  could  have  made  a  chess-board  of  virtues 
and  vices,  and  never  have  found  ourselves  on 
the  same  square.  His  virtues  were  his  mother's 
— whom  may  the  saints  cherish  in  heaven !  The 
poetry  that  she  thought  and  dreamed  he  wrote 
down  with  pen  and  ink;  the  love  of  the  beauti 
ful  that  God  deals  sparingly  to  His  creatures 
God  gave  in  abundance  to  him.  Tempestuous 
he  was,  yet  gentle;  self-indulgent,  yet  inspired. 
There — perhaps  you  have  guessed  his  name. 
Six  years  ago  it  was  one  of  the  greatest  in 
France." 

Peter  hesitated. 

"Not  Ferdinand  Taillandy?"  he  said. 


THE   PAGAN 


"Himself,"  replied  the  old  man. 

Peter  was  not  compelled  to  strain  his  mem 
ory,  for,  unbidden,  the  names  of  two  great 
poems  came  to  his  lips  and  he  uttered  them 
aloud. 

"Le  Triomphe  de  V Amour  and  Le  Tombeau 
de  I' Amour  "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Taillandy,  and  his  voice 
was  full  of  bitterness;  "they  well-nigh  tell  a 
story,  those  two  titles,  do  they  not?  What  is 
this  love  but  a  serpent  that  we  clasp  to  our 
beasts  only  to  have  it  sting  us  ?  It  was  the  usual 
tale;  so  commonplace  that  we  have  come  to 
shrug  and  to  smile  when  it  is  told  us.  He  fell 
in  love  with  a  beautiful  girl — ah,  but  she  was 
beautiful,  and  gentle — and  I  think  she  loved 
him  after  her  fashion.  Her  great-grandfather 
had  been  brave  with  Bonaparte  and  had  been 
made  a  baron.  My  son's  great-grandfather, 
you  see,  was  a  peasant  of  Dijon  and  he,  too,  had 
fought  under  Bonaparte;  but  an  Austrian  had 
split  his  skull  with  a  sabre  at  Austerlitz  before 
the  little  Corsican  could  reward  him.  And  so 
we  are  not  of  the  nobility.  Her  parents  op 
posed  the  match,  for  they  were  seeking  more 
than  my  son  had  to  offer.  She  gave  him  up 
without  a  struggle  and  scarce  a  tear,  and  he — 
his  tears  are  all  in  that  last  poem  of  his,  in  every 
line,  in  every  word!" 

The  old  man  choked  and  stopped.  Peter 
waited  quietly. 

"I  have  not  seen  my  son  for  six  years,"  Tail- 


THE   PAGAN 


landy  continued,  "but  I  believe  that  he  is  alive. 
When  he  left  us  he  said  that  he  was  going  to 
see  if  life  was  not  something  better  than  an  ill- 
natured  practical  joke  on  man.  Let  me  see — 
he  was  then  thirty-one  years  old.  Now  he 
would  be  thirty-seven;  just  your  age,  Peter." 

"You  have  not  corresponded  with  him?  He 
has  written  no  one  ?"  asked  Peter. 

"Not  for  six  years — six  years,1*  he  repeated 
slowly.  "Six  years  is  a  long  time,  Peter;  it 
seems  a  lifetime  when  one  has  but  six  days  or 
six  hours  left  to  live." 

"Ah,"  said  Peter,  "but  you  are  not  as  near 
the  end  as  that" — and  then  he  stopped,  for  he 
saw  that  his  encouragement  was  useless.  A 
spasm  of  pain  had  shaken  the  old  man's  body, 
and  dimly  the  spark  of  life  shone  in  his  eyes. 
That  he  had  more  to  say  was  evident.  The 
nurse  poured  a  stimulant  into  a  glass  and  held 
it  to  his  lips.  He  continued  haltingly,  with 
great  effort: 

"You  must  find  my  son,  Peter.  I  have  left 
him  all  my  fortune;  all  but  enough  to  keep 
Marthe  comfortably.  If  you  can't  find  him 
within  a  year — if  he  is  dead — it  all  goes  to  you. 
You  are  to  marry  Marthe  and  become  a  mem 
ber  of  the  firm.  It  is  in  my  will — I  will  it  so. 
You  understand?  That  is  all." 

His  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  but  his  lips 
still  moved.  Peter  leaned  close  to  hear  his 
last  words. 


THE   PAGAN  I 


"Peter — they  are  cheating  us  on  those  silks 

from  Lyons — the  last  ones — low  quality " 

And  so  he  died. 


II 

AFTER  Taillandy's  funeral  a  perturbed  con 
ference  was  held  in  his  dark,  echoing  house  in 
the  rue  de  Crenelle.  Maitre  Baresse,  Tail 
landy's  personal  lawyer,  was  explaining  to  those 
directly  concerned  the  terms  of  the  will.  Ten 
sion  was  in  the  air.  Even  Maitre  Baresse  had 
permitted  himself  to  express  a  regret  that  the 
document  should  be  so  quixotic. 

"It  is  a  little  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  was  the 
phrase  he  had  used. 

His  audience  consisted  of  but  two  people, 
Marthe  Taillandy  and  Peter  Mason,  and  of 
the  two  Peter  was  the  more  confused,  for 
Marthe  was  blessed  with  a  temperament  that 
enabled  her  to  believe  that  everything  was  in 
variably  for  the  best.  At  twenty-four  she  had 
the  sturdy  cheerfulness  that  is  the  dowry  of 
every  normal  Frenchwoman. 

"Thus,"  concluded  Maitre  Baresse,  "you  per 
ceive  that  in  any  case  Mile.  Marthe  receives 
the  house  and  an  annuity  of  twenty-five  thou 
sand  francs.  Monsieur  Mason  is  to  be  paid  the 
sum  of  sixty  thousand  francs  at  once  to  meet 
the  expenses  he  will  incur  during  the  year  in 
the  search  for  young  Monsieur  Ferdinand  Tail- 


8  THE  PAGAN 


landy,  whom  I  may  designate  as  the  heir  to  the 
residue  of  his  father's  fortune  of  twelve  million 
francs.  Should,  however,  the  heir  not  be  found 
or  not  present  properly  and  in  due  form  his 
claim  within  one  year,  the  aforesaid  twelve 
millions  go  to  Monsieur  Mason,  but  upon  a 
condition:  that  he  first  marry  Mile.  Marthe 
and  enter  as  a  partner  into  the  firm  of  Tail- 
landy,  Mason  &  Co.  May  I  remark,  Monsieur 
Mason,"  the  little  old  lawyer  continued,  peer 
ing  at  the  American  through  watery  eyes,  "may 
I  remark  that  this  clause,  especially,  indicates 
either  the  remarkable  trust  reposed  in  you  by 
the  late  Monsieur  Taillandy  or  else  the  la 
mentable  condition  of  his  brain  preceding  his 
death?" 

"You  may  so  remark,"  returned  Peter  dryly. 

Maitre  Baresse  cleared  his  throat  and  re 
sumed.  "There  is  a  final  clause,"  he  said, 
"which  applies  only  in  case  Monsieur  Ferdi 
nand  Taillandy  should  not  be  found  and  in  case 
no  marriage  should  be  arranged  between  Mon 
sieur  Mason  and  Mile.  Marthe,  as  mentioned 
before.  In  such  circumstances  the  twelve  mil 
lion  francs  go  entirely  and  unreservedly  to  Mile. 
Marthe.  Have  I  made  myself  clear?  I  trust 
so.  First,  Monsieur  Ferdinand;  then,  if  Mon 
sieur  Ferdinand  be  not  found,  Monsieur 
Mason,  on  condition  that  he  marries  Mile. 
Marthe " 

"Poor  Peter,"  said  Marthe,  speaking  for 
the  first  time  since  the  lawyer  had  held  the  floor. 


THE   PAGAN 


"Poor  Peter,  what  a  price  father  is  making 
you  pay  to  become  his  heir." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Peter,  flushing.  "There 
is  no  question  of  that.  Your  brother  is  cer 
tainly  alive,  and  it  remains  but  to  find  him. 
Your  brother  once  found,  the  will  is  reasonable 
and  precise." 

"Yes,"  said  Marthe,  "the  complications 
would  arise  only  upon  failure  to  find  him." 

"There  shall  be  no  such  failure,"  said  Peter 
sturdily. 

"I  felicitate  you,  monsieur,  on  your  generous 
attitude,"  said  Maitre  Baresse,  rising  painfully 
to  his  feet.  "It  remains  for  me  now  but  to  bid 
you  an  revoir  and  bonne  chance.  This  has  been 
a  very  sad  affair  for  all  of  us — especially  for 
you,  Mile.  Marthe — and  the  added  factor  of 
this — er — fanciful  testament  is  not  the  least  of 
the  disturbing  elements.  If  I  can  be  of  any  fur 
ther  assistance — my  card.  Allow  me.  Good 
day." 

"Thank  heaven !"  said  Peter,  when  the  door 
had  closed  behind  the  back  of  the  lawyer's  shiny 
coat.  "Thank  heaven,  we  are  rid  of  him. 
Now,  Marthe,  perhaps  you  and  I  can  come  to 
some  conclusions.  Have  you  any  proposal  to 
make?" 

"That,"  said  Marthe,  smiling,  "is  for  you 
to  do  if  you  want  the  twelve  million." 

Peter's  face  became  very  serious. 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,"  he  said,  "that  the 
conditions  of  this  will  are  most  annoying?" 


10  THE   PAGAN 


" Why?"  asked  Marthe. 

"Suppose,"  said  Peter,  "that  we  do  not  find 
your  brother  within  a  year." 

"Suppose  we  do  not,"  replied  Marthe; 
"what  then?" 

"Then,"  said  Peter,  "why  then  the  twelve 
million  is  to  go  to  me " 

"Not  unless  you  marry  me  first,"  corrected 
Marthe  smoothly. 

"Just  so,"  said  Peter;  "you  see  the  diffi 
culty?" 

"The  difficulty!"  echoed  Marthe.  "What 
difficulty?  Don't  you  want  to  marry  me? 
Wouldn't  you  marry  me  for  twelve  million 
francs?" 

Peter  blushed  mightily. 

"You  know  I  want  to  marry  you,  Marthe," 
he  said.  "I  have  told  you  that  often  enough, 
long  before  I  was  offered  twelve  million  to  do 
it.  That  is  just  the  difficulty — that  from  now 
on  I  am  being  offered  twelve  million  to  do  it." 

"I  see,"  said  Marthe.  "You  mean  that  you 
feel  you  are  being  bribed.  I  should  hate  to 
have  you  stop  proposing,  Peter;  but  perhaps," 
she  continued,  visibly  amused,  "perhaps  father 
knew  what  was  best." 

"It's  monstrous,"  Peter  cried.  "Of  course 
your  father  did  it  for  the  sake  of  the  firm.  I 
know  that  he  wanted  the  company  that  bore 
his  name  to  grow,  to  expand,  to  advance — to 
live  long  after  he  and  his  children  and  their 
children  had  ceased  to  live.  But  me — why  did 


THE   PAGAN  11 


he  choose  me?  He  leaves  me  in  such  a  posi 
tion  that  I  cannot  ask  you  to  marry  me  with 
out  apparently  reaching  for  the  twelve  million." 

"If  my  brother  is  not  found  and  if  I  should 
refuse  to  marry  you,"  said  Marthe,  "why,  then, 
the  money  is  mine,  is  it  not?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Peter. 

Marthe  laughed. 

"How  amusing,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  see 
that  in  such  a  case  I  could  not  refuse  any  offer 
of  marriage  you  might  make  to  me  without 
appearing  to  be  greedy  for  the  twelve  million 
for  myself?" 

Peter  started. 

"By  the  gods,"  he  said  slowly,  "that's  true. 
I  had  not  thought  of  that." 

"So  you  see,  Peter,"  she  continued,  "there 
is  only  one  solution :  we  must  find  my  brother 
Ferdinand.  Otherwise  I  should  feel  honor- 
bound  to  marry  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "we  must.  Otherwise 
I  should  feel  honor-bound  not  to  ask  you." 


Ill 

ALL  the  usual  machinery  employed  in  trac 
ing  lost  persons  was  at  once  put  into  motion: 
advertisements  in  most  of  the  papers  of  France 
and  in  many  foreign  ones;  rewards  for  news 
of  the  missing  man;  a  corps  of  detectives  who 


12  THE   PAGAN 


promised  much,  hinted  much,  speculated  much, 
suspected  much,  and  accomplished  nothing. 

Thus,  with  no  progress  to  report,  winter 
melted  to  spring  and  spring  warmed  to  sum 
mer  and  autumn  was  upon  them.  In  the  end 
it  remained  for  luck  and  Peter,  abetted  by  a 
suggestion  from  Marthe,  to  hit  upon  the  one 
clew  that  was  obtained. 

The  suggestion  emanated  from  Marthe  in 
this  wise.  It  was  a  bronze  October  day,  and 
she  and  Peter  were  walking  together  in  the 
Avenue  du  Bois.  Often  they  had  dared  this, 
for  Marthe  had  no  one  to  elude  but  a  myopic 
spinster  aunt;  and  Peter,  being  an  American, 
thought  nothing  of  conventions. 

It  was  October,  I  have  said,  and  cold,  with 
a  sharp  little  breeze  that  whipped  Marthe's 
skirts  about  in  a  lively  fashion,  and  roused 
bright  color  to  her  cheeks,  and  drove  reluctant 
clouds  pell-mell  across  a  serene  sky  like  fat, 
rollicking  white  puppies.  Peter  did  not  fail  to 
observe  that  Marthe  looked  very  alluring  in 
the  wind. 

"Peter,"  said  she,  half-way  to  the  Bois,  "we 
are  not  progressing.  Something  radical  must 
be  done." 

"Right,"  said  Peter;  "but  what?" 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  replied  Marthe,  "of 
the  places  my  brother  used  to  frequent  before 
he  left  us.  Every  true  Frenchman,  you  know, 
has  his  cafe,  and  I  seem  to  remember  that  Fer 
dinand's  was  called  the  Closerie  des  Lilas  and 


THE    PAGAN  13 


was  on  the  Boulevard  du  Montparnasse.  Is 
it  not  just  possible  that  there  you  might  meet 
some  of  his  old-time  cronies  who  could  give 
you  some  hint?" 

"It  is  worth  trying,"  said  Peter.  "What  sort 
of  folk  go  there?" 

"Artists  and  writers  in  embryo,  and  men 
with  dreams  or  ambitions  or  both." 

"I  have  both,"  said  Peter.    And  he  went. 

He  went  not  only  once  but  several  times,  and 
each  time  he  came  away  empty-handed;  which 
was  not  strange.  Still  he  persevered,  for  the 
little  cafe  came  to  exert  a  certain  fascination 
over  him.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  Ararat 
of  a  world  flooded  with  lost  illusions.  Here, 
as  Marthe  had  indicated,  was  genius  in  em 
bryo  and  youth  to  whom  no  tradition  was  too 
sacred  to  be  shattered.  One  day  he  was  re 
warded. 

He  had  seated  himself  at  a  marble-topped 
table,  where  the  smoke  was  thickest,  ordered 
a  'vermouth  a  ly can,  and  started  to  look  about 
him.  On  his  right  ecarte  was  being  played  by 
two  and  watched  by  half  a  dozen  unkempt, 
bearded  artists.  On  his  left  it  was  backgam 
mon.  The  odor  of  French  tobacco  was  every 
where.  Opposite,  across  the  narrow  room,  he 
noticed  a  gaunt,  sallow  young  fellow  with  some 
thing  of  the  glint  of  genius  in  his  eyes  and  a 
toothpick  in  his  mouth.  He  was  haranguing 
a  group  of  painters  and  writers,  using  many 
superlatives  and  a  liberal  allowance  of  gesture; 


14  THE   PAGAN 


and  his  audience  expressed  their  approval  as 
often  as  he  paused  for  applause.  Soon  his  voice 
rose  above  the  ordinary  murmur  of  conversa 
tion,  and  his  fist  banged  the  clattering  table-top 
as  he  emphasized  his  climax. 

"C'est  du  chique"  he  cried;  "cest  du  chique! 
All — all  of  it  is  a  fraud!  All  of  it  is  gilded 
papier-mache.  Literature  and  art,  too,  I  tell 
you,  are  ruined  by  your  realists,  your  natural 
ists,  your  symbolists.  You  here,  Baptiste,  you 
that  call  yourself  a  realist,  what  good  have  you 
accomplished;  what  can  you  point  to?  Double 
species  of  idiot,  you  have  studied  the  dirt  in  the 
streets  when  you  might  have  been  studying  the 
stars  in  the  skies;  you  have  wallowed  in  filth — 
realistic  filth,  if  you  will — when  you  should 
have  been  seeking  nymphs  in  the  glades  and 
listening  to  the  pipes  of  Pan.  What  we  must 
do  to  save  ourselves  is  to  revert.  To  romanti 
cism?  No;  too  sickly  sweet.  To  classicism? 
No,  not  quite;  too  artificial,  too  severe. 
To  paganism?  Yes!  a  thousand  times,  yes! 
There  and  only  there  do  we  see  Beauty  naked 
but  unashamed.  The  worship  of  Beauty,  of 
Beauty  in  the  sky,  in  the  hills,  in  the  waters,  in 
the  trees,  in  the  eyes  of  women,  and  in  the 
hearts  of  men.  Gautier  approached  it  in  'Mile, 
de  Maupin' ;  an  Englishman,  Swinburne,  came 
nearer;  and  one  of  us,  I  tell  you,  one  of  us  was 
almost  at  the  goal  when  his  light  was  extin 
guished.  Yes,  Ferdinand  Taillandy,  had  he 
stayed  with  us,  would  have  been  the  leader  of 


THE   PAGAN  15 


the  greatest  school  of  literature  the  world  has 
known." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  succeeding 
this  grandiloquent  oration,  and  then  Peter's 
right-hand  neighbor,  he  who  was  playing  at 
ecarte,  said  with  sincerity  and  real  feeling: 
"Ce  pauvre  Ferdinand!  We  miss  him  much, 
we  who  knew  him  and  loved  him." 

It  was  Peter's  opportunity;  a  better  he  could 
not  have  wished  for.  Turning  to  his  neighbor 
he  said  in  his  excellent  French:  uMonsieur, 
you  will  pardon,  I  trust,  the  interruption  of  a 
stranger,  but  I  read  in  the  earnestness  of  your 
tone  a  true  regard  for  Ferdinand  Taillandy." 

"But,  yes,"  said  the  other,  "you  have  reason 
to  say  it,  monsieur." 

"I  myself,"  said  Peter,  "while  not  one  of  his 
family,  share  their  interest  and  anxiety  with 
regard  to  his  whereabouts;  for  his  father,  dy 
ing,  employed  his  last  breath  to  urge  me  to 
bring  back  his  son  into  the  world.  You  have 
doubtless  seen  the  advertisements  and  the  re 
wards.  They  have  been  useless,  all  useless. 
It  is  eight  months  that  we  have  been  seeking 
him  in  vain,  and  I  no  longer  know  what  to  do 
or  where  to  turn;  so  I  came  in  here  to-day, 
knowing  that  here  he  also  had  been  accustomed 
to  come  and  hoping  to  meet  some  one  of  his 
friends  who  might  help  me.  Am  I  to  be  dis 
appointed?  Is  there  nothing  you  can  tell  me?" 

The  man  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"No,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid  I  can 


16  THE   PAGAN 


tell  you  nothing.  None  of  us  here  knows  any 
thing  that  could  be  of  help  to  you.  But  stop ! 
Have  you  seen  Germaine  D'Arcy,  of  the 
Theatre  des  Capucines?  No?  Well,  it  is 
just  possible  that  if  you  approached  her  tact 
fully  and  delicately  she  could  tell  you  more  than 
any  one  else  in  Paris.  She  used  to  come  here 
with  him  often  toward  the  last,  when  he  was 
desperate,  you  know.  I  believe  she  is  the  only 
person  in  the  city  who  knows  where  he  dis 
appeared  to." 

"Germaine  D'Arcy  ?"  repeated  Peter. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  dryly;  "her  name  de 
scribes  her.  When  Taillandy  first  knew  her 
she  was  a  couturier ~e  and  was  called  Zizi;  but 
you  had  best  not  remind  her  of  those  days: 
'autre  temps,  autres  mceurs*  " 

"I  understand,"  said  Peter  gratefully;  "you 
mean  she  has  prospered  since  then?" 

"Exactly,"  replied  the  other;  "she  has  tri 
umphed  completely.  But  she  has  forgotten 
us,  her  old  friends,  and  her  father  is  still  a 
floor-walker  at  the  Bon-Marche." 

Peter  thanked  him  profusely,  paid  his  check, 
and  left. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  blinked 
in  the  bright  sunlight  outside,  "it  seems  as 
though  the  great  paganist  school  of  literature 
might  recover  its  leader  after  all;  for  to-mor 
row  I  hitch  my  wagon  to  a  star — of  the 
Theatre  des  Capucines." 


THE   PAGAN  17 


IV 

MLLE.  GERMAINE  D'ARCY  was  accustomed 
to  see  her  name  in  twelve-inch  letters  on  the 
Paris  bill-boards.  She  was  one  of  a  score  of 
artistes  (the  term  is  flattering)  who  have  risen 
to  glory  by  means  of  a  taking  face  and  a  speak 
ing  leg.  She  could  not  act  nor  sing  nor  dance. 
Dance  ? — she  could  not  have  bent  to  fasten  her 
slipper,  but  she  possessed  what  the  French  call 
la  ligne.  Also  she  had  been  frequently  photo 
graphed;  she  had  worn  the  right  clothes  at 
Chantilly  and  at  Longchamps,  and  she  had 
advertised  and  recommended  every  known 
toilet  article  but  a  safety  razor.  Nevertheless, 
or  perhaps  therefore,  Germaine  D'Arcy  was 
nobody's  fool. 

Peter,  not  being  to  that  manner  born,  was 
somewhat  at  a  loss  how  he  might  best  approach 
her.  Finally,  abandoning  better  but  more  com 
plicated  methods  of  attack,  he  presented  him 
self  at  the  Theatre  des  Capucines  after  the 
evening  performance  and,  having  scribbled  "A 
Crazy  American  Millionaire"  on  his  card,  sent 
it  back  to  Mile.  D'Arcy.  After  an  impressive 
interval  he  was  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the 
Queen. 

Germaine  was  seated  at  her  dressing-table, 
clad  in  yellow  silk  and  much  white  lace.  She 
was  removing  her  stage  make-up,  and  Peter 


18  THE   PAGAN 


was  vouchsafed  only  a  view  of  her  back  as  she 
leaned  toward  her  mirror,  patting  her  face  with 
tapering,  white  fingers — fingers  so  patrician  as 
to  be  constant  negations  of  her  plebeian  birth. 

"Give  yourself  the  pain  to  sit  down,"  she 
said  without  turning.  "I  shall  be  ready  sud 
denly.  You  see  I  speak  the  English." 

"Astoundingly,"  said  Peter,  and  seated  him 
self  gingerly  on  an  inefficient  Empire  chair. 

A  neat  maid  appeared,  silks  rustled,  laces 
flounced,  slim  arms  clutched  the  air,  a  thousand 
hooks  clicked  merrily,  and  Germaine  arose, 
dressed,  radiant,  and  smiling.  She  held  out 
her  left  hand,  heavy  with  pearls,  and  said 
brightly:  "Supper?" 

uAh,"  said  Peter  gallantly,  "do  goddesses 
eat?  How  banal!" 

"Dancing  gives  me  the  appetite,"  she  re 
plied  with  a  smile  that  did  credit  to  her  den 
tifrice. 

Since  she  considered  supper  inevitable,  Peter 
took  her  to  the  Abbaye,  a  small  restaurant  in 
the  Place  Pigalle,  all  green  and  white  and  elec 
tric-light  color.  Crowds  were  seated  at  the 
tables  along  the  banquettes  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  room;  white  shoulders  and  whiter  shirt- 
fronts  gleamed  through  tobacco-smoke;  more 
crowds  at  the  entrance  waiting  for  tables; 
waiters  jostling  indiscriminately;  fantastically 
dressed  dancing  girls,  brandishing  silken  legs 
and  singing  to  castanets;  frantic,  red-coated 
Hungarian  musicians,  pounding  and  scraping 


THE   PAGAN  19 


at  delirious  strings,  and  an  all-pervading  odor 
of  smoke,  of  champagne,  and  of  expensive 
perfumes. 

Peter  smiled  grimly. 

"This,"  said  he  to  himself,  "is  not  quite  the 
place  I  should  have  chosen  for  my  purpose,  and 
yet ?" 

Mile.  Germaine  D'Arcy  obtained  a  table 
immediately.  Mr.  Peter  Mason  might  have 
emptied  his  pockets  in  vain  bribes ;  for  the  rule 
at  the  Abbaye  is  "No  favoritism  except  to  the 
favorites." 

If  the  lady  beside  him  entertained  any 
curiosity  as  to  Peter  or  as  to  his  motives  in  pre 
senting  himself,  she  did  not  choose  to  betray  it. 
Their  conversation  at  first  dwelt  mainly  on 
what  they  should  eat  and  drink.  Germaine  or 
dered  fastidiously  and  superciliously,  choosing 
by  instinct  or  by  experience  the  more  expensive 
dishes,  and  Peter  could  not  but  note,  with  some 
amusement,  that  she  ate  enormously  and  with 
little  skill.  Her  Junoesque  eyes  travelled  in 
cessantly  about  the  room,  and  she  bowed  and 
smiled  to  several  celebrities.  Princes  and  poets 
bowed  low  in  return.  The  more  recognition 
she  received  the  more  condescending  did  her 
manner  toward  Peter  become,  until  in  some 
mysterious  way  she  managed  to  convey  to  him 
the  feeling  that  she  considered  him  socially  her 
inferior.  With  pains  she  named  to  him  her 
acquaintances:  the  Prince  of  Beringen-Schoen- 
berg;  the  Conte  Montalbi;  Rene  de  Courcy, 


20  THE   PAGAN 


the  famous  young  dramatist;  the  Marquis  de 
la  Croix-Argentin ;  Henri  Saint-Giseaux,  who 
made  the  champagne  they  were  drinking,  and  so 
forth,  et  cetera. 

At  length,  from  being  overbored,  Peter  be 
came  vexed.  He  played  his  ace  of  trumps  and 
waited  to  take  the  trick. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said  in  French,  lazily  and 
casually;  "by  the  way,  Zizi,  what  do  you  hear 
from  our  friend  Ferdinand  Taillandy?" 

A  large  slice  of  a  large  pear,  half-way  to 
Germaine's  mouth,  never  reached  its  destina 
tion;  and  Germaine's  doll-like  eyes  narrowed 
with  suspicion  not  unmixed  with  anger.  She 
directed  one  sharp  glance  at  Peter  and  then 
kept  her  eyes  from  his  face.  Her  reply,  when 
it  came,  was  concise. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  she  said,  "you  certainly  are  a 
crazy  American  millionaire." 

"Am  I  not?"  said  Peter  smoothly;  and  then, 
after  a  silence :  "Do  you  never  regret  those 
days  of  the  Lilas — sans  princes  et  sans  perles?" 

For  a  brief  moment  Germaine's  rouge  was 
superfluous. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  at  once  that  you 
were  one  of  us — that  you  knew  Ferdinand?" 

"Because,"  said  Peter,  "I  knew  better." 

"You  think  I  would  have  refused  to  see  you, 
refused  to  talk  with  you?" 

"I  do,']  said  Peter. 

Germaine  nodded  her  head  slowly. 

"You  were  right,"  she  said.     "Nevertheless, 


THE   PAGAN  21 


I  was  very  fond  of  Ferdinand;  he  was  different 
from  these  others.  He  was  a  great  poet  and 
yet  he  had  a  chic — he  was  presentable.  I  have 
met  but  few  clever  men  who  dress  themselves 
well.  It  is  strange,  is  it  not?" 

"Wrinkles  in  the  brow  and  in  the  clothes  go 
hand  in  hand,"  said  Peter. 

"What?"  said  Germaine.  "Oh,  never  mind; 
do  not  explain  it.  What  was  I  saying?  Oh, 
yes — poor  Ferdinand.  He  would  not  have 
enjoyed  it  here.  He  liked  better  the  Lilas, 
where  every  one  was  a  friend.  Do  you  remem 
ber  the  way  he  used  to  pound  on  the  table  for 
my  beer?  'Gargon,  une  brune  pour  cette  petite 
blonde!'  I  always  drank  dark  beer,  you  see, 
and  my  hair  was  quite  golden  then.  But  you  ? 
— I  do  not  remember  you.  Did  you  go  there 
often?" 

"No,"  said  Peter,  "I  have  been  there  very 
seldom;  but  I  am  very  anxious  to  help  Ferdi 
nand.  You  know,  of  course,  that  there  is  twelve 
million  francs  waiting  for  him  to  claim?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Germaine;  "I  have  heard." 

"Well,  he  has  not  appeared  to  claim  it.  We 
have  been  searching  for  him  for  eight — nearly 
nine  months  now.  We  do  not  know  if  he  is 
alive.  Can  you  help  us?" 

Germaine  was  silent. 

"If  he  wants  the  twelve  million,"  she  said  at 
length,  "why  does  he  not  come  forward  and 
claim  it?  He  must  have  seen  your  advertise 
ments." 


22  THE   PAGAN 


"Yes,"  replied  Peter,  "if  he  is  alive.  But 
is  he  alive?" 

"I  do  not  know — how  should  I  know?"  she 
said  quickly.  Then,  apparently  veering,  she 
added :  "Yes,  he  is  alive.  At  least,  he  was  two 
weeks  ago." 

Peter  was  at  some  pains  not  to  betray  his 
pleasure.  "And  where  is  he,  then?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,"  Germaine  continued,  "I  will  tell  you 
all  I  know  because  I  hope  it  will  benefit  him. 
Only  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  that  you  have 
been  exceptionally  clever;  that  would  be  a  mis 
take.  No,  I  tell  you  of  my  own  free  will.  Also, 
will  you  order  me  a  Peche  Melba?  I  have  a 
little  hunger  still.  Yes,  Ferdinand  is  of  the 
sort  who  should  have  money.  For  six  years, 
now,  he  has  lived  on  nothing — almost  nothing. 
He  has  written  to  me  once  every  month  during 
those  six  years.  I  don't  know  why;  perhaps 
he  likes  me.  Never  has  he  allowed  me  to  write 
to  him;  never  has  he  given  me  an  address.  But 
I  have  followed  him  by  the  post-marks  on  the 
envelopes.  Wherever  he  goes  he  walks,  and 
in  those  six  years  he  has  been  to  Austria,  to 
Germany,  to  Greece,  to  Italy,  and  just  now  to 
Spain.  He  is  writing  an  epic;  I  do  not  know 
what  that  is,  but  I  think  it  is  poetry.  He  is 
sometimes  very  droll.  He  says  he  is  seeking 
the  gods  in  their  own  haunts — in  the  forests,  he 
means,  and  in  the  streams  and  the  oceans.  Con 
stantly  he  is  talking  about  these  gods  and  god 
desses:  Jupiter  and  Neptune,  and,  of  course, 


THE   PAGAN  23 


that  marble  one  in  the  Louvre — in  the  Musee, 
I  mean,  not  in  the  Grand  Magasin.  Especially, 
though,  he  mentions  one  woman  —  Diana. 
'Some  day,'  he  says,  'I,  too,  like  Actaeon,  shall 
surprise  her  bathing.'  He  is  like  that.  Often 
I  cannot  understand  what  he  means.  Now  he 
is  walking  from  Spain  along  through  France 
by  the  Mediterranean.  The  last  letter  I  re 
ceived,  two  weeks  ago,  was  from  Marseilles. 
By  now  he  should  be  in  the  Riviera.  You  might 
find  him  there.  That  is  all  I  know — all  I  can 
tell  you." 

"I  am  very,  very  grateful,"  said  Peter. 
"Won't  you  have  another  peach?" 

"No,"  said  Germaine;  "I  am  complete.  I 
hope  you  will  find  him.  He  deserves  to  be  rich, 
and  it  may  help  him  with  his  epic." 

"It  may,"  said  Peter.  "And  now,"  he  went 
on,  "there  is  one  thing  more,  if  you  will  pardon 
me  for  mentioning  money  in  your  presence.  A 
substantial  reward  has  been  offered  for  infor 
mation  leading  to  the  discovery  of  Ferdinand. 
This,  of  course,  will  be  yours  if  I  succeed  now 
in  tracing  him." 

"How  much  is  it?"  asked  Germaine. 

"Twenty  thousand  francs." 

She  smiled  abstractedly,  playing  with  the 
rings  on  her  hands. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  she  replied,  with  a  shrug;  "I 
have  that  much  on  my  little  finger." 


24  THE   PAGAN 


V 

PETER  went  to  Monte  Carlo.  What  per 
haps  was  strange  was  that  Marthe  and  her 
myopic  aunt  went,  too. 

"I  can  be  useful,"  Marthe  declared,  "in  de 
tecting  impostors.  You  have  never  seen  Ferdi 
nand;  I  have." 

The  myopic  aunt  went  apparently  because 
she  had  to;  but  inwardly  she  had  a  longing  to 
play  the  red  and  double.  She  had  never  gam 
bled  before. 

During  the  first  month  of  their  stay  Peter 
saw  a  score  of  Ferdinand  Taillandys,  none  of 
whom,  however,  finally  proved  satisfactory. 
At  first  he  was  cautious  and  discreet,  employ 
ing  many  circumlocutions  in  snaring  his  prey; 
but  later,  becoming  reckless,  he  startled  several 
honest,  God-fearing  people  by  asking  them 
point-blank  if  they  were  not  the  missing  poet. 
One  or  two,  who  had  heard  of  the  waiting  fort 
une,  acknowledged  that  they  were,  and  it  re 
mained  for  Marthe  to  assure  them  of  their 
mistake. 

The  end  of  the  year  brought  with  it  the  an 
niversary  of  old  Taillandy's  death,  and  his  son 
was  still  at  large.  It  was  actually  on  the  last 
day  of  the  term  that  Peter  believed  that  he  had 
finally  discovered  the  elusive  heir.  It  happened 
thus: 

Peter,    after    a    hasty    glance    through    the 


THE   PAGAN  25 


gambling-rooms,  had  gone  out  to  the  sunny  ter 
race  behind  the  Casino  to  smoke  in  peace  a  long 
cigar.  He  settled  himself  on  a  bench  and 
blinked  happily  in  the  sunlight.  The  air  came 
fresh  and  salt  off  the  sea,  which  rose  beneath 
him,  a  mass  of  gleaming  lazulite,  to  meet  the 
sky  at  the  unbroken  bow  of  the  horizon.  Peter 
sat  back  and  enjoyed  it,  and  tainted  the  breeze 
with  his  cigar. 

Then  some  one  spoke  at  his  elbow. 

"Leisure  for  meditation,"  some  one  said,  "is 
the  greatest  gift  the  gods  have  to  bestow.  You, 
monsieur,  I  perceive,  are  unusually  blessed." 

Peter  turned  to  find  that  a  shabby-looking 
person,  having  appropriated  the  other  half  of 
the  bench,  was  sprawling  luxuriously  in  his  seat, 
his  long,  lean  legs  stretched  out  straight  in  front 
of  him  and  a  cigarette  held  debonairly  in  a  pair 
of  nicotine-stained  fingers.  He  was  dressed  in 
an  ill-fitting,  much-patched  brown  suit,  which 
hung  on  his  lank  frame  in  baggy  folds  and 
creases.  His  left  hand  was  thrust  deep  in  his 
trousers  pocket,  and  his  coat,  being  thus  thrown 
back,  revealed  a  blue  corduroy  waistcoat  held 
together  precariously  by  occasional  vermilion 
buttons.  His  cravat,  of  green  silk,  was  knot 
ted  around  a  low,  soft  collar,  immaculately 
white.  A  gray  felt  hat  was  perched  jauntily 
on  one  side  of  his  head,  and  through  a  jagged 
hole  in  its  crown  Peter  could  see  a  tangle  of 
hair,  black  as  an  Indian's,  one  lock  of  which 
hung  down  straight  over  his  right  eyebrow. 


26  THE   PAGAN 


"You  are  regarding  my  hat  with  ill-concealed 
admiration,  I  perceive.  Doubtless  you  are 
amazed  at  such  excessive  ventilation,  which, 
though  not  strictly  fashionable,  is  excellent  for 
the  hair.  Men  wear  hats  in  order  to  remove 
them  for  women.  I  know  no  women,  so  I 
compromise." 

Peter  regarded  the  man  blankly.  He  was 
speaking  excellent  English,  with  scarcely  enough 
French  accent  to  proclaim  his  nationality.  His 
linen,  his  hands,  and  his  speech  argued  for  his 
refinement,  and  a  glance  at  his  face  confirmed  it. 
A  thin,  delicate  nose;  a  pair  of  brown  eyes, 
rather  dull  and  listless,  and  hinting  at  suffering 
undergone;  heavy,  black  brows;  a  sensitive 
mouth,  curved  crookedly  in  an  amused  smile, 
which  displayed  his  regular,  white  teeth;  a  nar 
row,  pointed  chin  projecting  somewhat  like  that 
of  the  notorious  Punch — all  set  in  a  thin,  drawn 
face,  high  as  to  cheek-bones,  and  bronzed  as 
dark  as  an  Arab's. 

Peter  checked  his  first  impulse  to  rise  and 
leave.  Later  he  was  exceedingly  glad  that  he 
had  done  so.  He  murmured  something  to  the 
effect  that,  since  it  was  his  first  trip  to  Monte 
Carlo,  he  was  taking  advantage  of  a  leisure 
hour  to  admire  the  view  from  the  terrace.  The 
other  stopped  him  with  a  motion  of  his  hand. 

"Why  explain?"  he  said.  "You  Anglo- 
Saxons  are  curious  people;  you  actually  are 
ashamed  to  be  idle — physically  idle,  I  mean. 
Does  it  never  occur  to  you  that  thinking  is  a 


THE   PAGAN  27 


praiseworthy  occupation?  'Man  is  of  the  earth, 
but  his  thoughts  are  with  the  stars.'  Did  not 
your  Carlyle  say  that?  Ah,  there  was  a  man 
who  knew  how  to  think  1" 

"Are  you  fond  of  Carlyle's  work?"  asked 
practical  Peter,  amazed. 

"Am  I  fond  of  Carlyle's  work!"  the  other 
echoed.  "Is  one  fond  of  the  'Odyssey'  of  Ho 
mer,  the  'Hermes'  of  Praxiteles,  or  the  'Tris 
tan'  of  Wagner?  You  have  ill-chosen  your 
verb.  Carlyle  was  a  man  of  beautiful  mind, 
of  beautiful  thoughts,  just  as  were  Homer  and 
Praxiteles  and  Wagner.  I  do  not  mean  by  that 
that  they  saw  everything  the  color  of  roses; 
rather  do  I  mean  that  they  saw  the  truth  and 
that  the  gods  gave  them  the  power  to  reveal 
its  beauty." 

"I  see,"  said  Peter  vaguely. 

"Yes,"  the  other  continued,  "the  beauty  of 
Truth  and  the  truth  of  Beauty;  they  are  two 
strings  that  have  been  much  fiddled  on,  but  they 
are  still  a-tune.  Poor  Beauty — she  is  becoming 
a  shy  goddess  since  the  days  of  this — "  and  he 
waved  a  contemptuous  hand  toward  the  Casino. 

"Surely,"  said  Peter,  "there  is  beauty  spread 
lavishly  enough  before  us  even  here.  What  of 
the  sea?" 

"Truly,"  said  the  other,  "there  is  Beauty  in 
the  sea.  Are  not  half  a  hundred  nereids  there 
to  keep  it  smiling?  But  one's  soul  must  be  in 
tune  if  the  chords  are  to  ring  true.  Do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  be  out  of  tune  with  Beauty? 


28  THE    PAGAN 


It  is  to  have  faith,  hope,  happiness,  ambition, 
and  love  turn  to  gray  ashes  in  your  heart.  Six 
years  ago  that  happened  to  me  in  a  day.  The 
senses  that  the  gods  give  to  poets  in  their  fullest 
perfection  were  torn  from  me.  The  sun -com 
ing  up  in  the  morning,  yonder  in  the  east,  trail 
ing  its  delicate,  golden-edged  clouds  like  a  gyp 
sy's  veils;  the  surge  of  the  sea,  the  voices  of 
the  birds,  the  eternal  song  of  Nature;  the  scent 
of  the  roses  climbing  smilingly  about  the  stucco 
walls — the  three  senses  on  which  my  very  ex 
istence  depended,  sight,  hearing,  and  smell, 
were  powerless  to  quicken  my  heart.  That  was 
six  years  ago.  My  mind  lay  paralyzed  and  my 
soul  lay  dead.  Poetry — bah !  I  crucified  my 
talent." 

He  paused  and  a  soft  land  breeze,  bearing 
the  sound  of  violins  from  the  plaza,  stirred  the 
palms  and  the  plane-trees  in  the  groves  behind 
them.  From  below  rose  the  incessant  wash  of 
the  sea. 

When  he  spoke  again  all  the  bitterness  had 
left  his  voice. 

"At  first,"  he  said,  "I  lived  in  a  dream. 
Animal-like,  I  shunned  the  cities  and  sought  the 
open  to  breathe.  Gradually  Nature  drew  me 
to  her  and  soothed  me.  I  rested  in  the  groves 
where  the  dryads  played;  I  bathed  in  the 
streams  of  the  naiads;  I  hunted  in  the  forests 
of  Artemis,  and  Pan  played  to  me  on  his  pipes. 
And  one  day  I  drank  of  the  spring  of  the  Ca- 
menae  and,  behold,  they  gave  me  back  my  gift. 


THE    PAGAN  29 


Is  there  not  an  epic  there? — something  re 
gained  that  is  perhaps  greater  than  paradise?" 

At  the  mention  of  the  epic  Peter's  suspicions 
were  transmuted  to  certainty.  His  pulses 
pounded  wildly  with  excitement. 

"Do  you  never  read  the  newspapers?"  he 
cried. 

The  poet  regarded  him  quizzically. 

"I  am  sorry  I  have  bored  you,"  he  said, 
and  rose  as  though  to  move  away. 

"No,  no,"  said  Peter ;  "I  must  ask  you  to  par 
don  me.  You  misunderstand." 

"You  asked  me  if  I  ever  read  the  newspapers, 
did  you  not?  I  fail  to  see  any  relevance,  but  if 
you  desire  an  answer:  no,  I  do  not." 

"I  did  not  intend  to  be  rude,"  said  Peter 
hurriedly;  "indeed,  I  have  the  keenest  interest 
in  all  that  you  have  been  telling  me.  May  I 
add  that  I  think  I  know  your  name  ?  Are  you 
not  Ferdinand  Taillandy?" 

"I  am,"  said  the  other;  "and  what  then?" 

"Then,"  cried  Peter  triumphantly;  "then, 
may  I  shake  your  hand?  You  are  the  man  I 
have  been  looking  for  for  twelve  months." 

"You  may  shake  my  hand  with  pleasure," 
said  the  poet,  "if  that  will  console  you  for  hav 
ing  wasted  a  year  of  your  life.  I  am  scarcely 
worth  it." 

"My  dear  man,"  exclaimed  Peter,  "you  are 
worth  twelve  million." 

"Twelve  million  what?"  asked  the  other. 

"Francs,"  said  Peter. 


30  THE   PAGAN 


The  poet  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  asked 
for  further  enlightenment.  Peter  was  ten 
minutes  explaining,  while  the  other  listened 
unmoved. 

"What  should  I  do  with  twelve  million 
francs?"  he  inquired  at  the  end.  "Suppose  I 
refuse  them;  what  becomes  of  them  then?" 

"Then,"  said  Peter,  embarrassed,  "they  go 
to  me  on  certain  conditions." 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  poet,  "you  would 
appear  to  be  an  honest  man.  You  are  actually 
pleased  to  have  found  me  and  to  lose  a  fortune 
thereby.  I  congratulate  you  and  I  congratulate 
myself,  for  Diogenes  would  have  envied  me 
exceedingly.  It  is  a  delight  to  know  that  the 
virtues  still  exist  among  mortals  who  live  in 
cities.  And  now,  my  friend,"  he  continued, 
"what  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?  You  wish  me 
first,  I  take  it,  to  see  my  sister.  Where  is  she  ?" 

"At  the  Hotel  de  Paris,"  said  Peter. 

"Ah,  yes,"  mused  the  other;  "purple  and  fine 
linen.  You  perceive  how  impossible  it  would 
be  for  me  ?  I  wear  clothes  because  the  law  re 
quires  it,  and  I  prize  my  liberty;  but  you  see 
what  they  are ?" 

"That,"  said  Peter  hastily,  "is  the  least  of 
difficulties,"  and  he  pressed  a  bank-note  into  the 
other's  hand. 

"After  all,  it  is  yours,  you  see,1'  he  explained ; 
"and  in  Monte  Carlo  you  can  at  least  find 
clothes.  Everything  is  for  sale  in  Monte 
Carlo." 


THE    PAGAN  31 


The  poet  hesitated  a  while,  and  then  thrust 
the  note  into  a  pocket  of  his  ragged  coat. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said;  "in  Monte  Carlo 
everything  is  for  sale."  And,  he  added  bitterly : 
"Everything — even  a  man's  freedom." 

Peter,  bursting  with  his  discovery,  sought 
Marthe  wildly  about  the  hotel  and  the  gam 
bling-rooms,  to  find  her  at  last,  in  company  with 
the  myopic  aunt,  sipping  lemonades  through 
hygienic  straws  on  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de 
Paris. 

"He  is  found,"  cried  Peter  from  afar,  wav 
ing  his  hat.  "There  is  no  mistake  this  time." 

"Bravo!"  said  Marthe,  but  coolly,  for  the 
same  tale  had  been  told  before. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  said  the  myopic  aunt,  peer 
ing  at  Peter  through  half  an  inch  of  glass 
lorgnon. 

"He  is  charming,"  said  Peter,  torrential  with 
news.  "He  is  cultivated,  refined,  unworldly, 
intellectual " 

"Did  you  give  him  any  money?"  asked  Mar 
the  practically.  Several  of  the  self-acknowl 
edged  Ferdinands  that  Peter  had  discovered 
had  received  and  spent  considerable  sums,  bor 
rowed  from  him  on  various  pretexts,  before 
Marthe  had  had  a  chance  to  disclaim  relation 
ship  with  them.  Peter  hesitated  and  blushed. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "he  was  not  very  well 
dressed  and,  as  he  is  to  meet  us  here,  I 
thought " 

"Much?"  asked  Marthe,  smiling. 


32  THE   PAGAN 


"He  didn't  want  to  accept  it,"  said  Peter, 
"but  I  forced  a  thousand  francs  on  him  for 
clothes  and  things,  you  know." 

"Mon  Dieu,"  exclaimed  the  myopic  aunt,  "a 
thousand  francs!  That  is  more  than  I  have 
won  on  the  red  in  four  weeks." 

"But,"  continued  Peter,  "there  is  no  doubt 
this  time — he  had  absolute  proofs;  and  he  told 
me  all  about  himself  before  I  hinted  that  I  was 
looking  for  him." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?"  asked  Marthe,  still 
unconvinced. 

"That  he  was  writing  a  great  epic  poem; 
that  he  had  been  living  away  from  the  world  for 
a  long  time ;  and  then  he  talked  a  lot  about  those 
pagan  gods  of  his,  you  know.  Oh,  he  is  gen 
uine,  right  enough." 

"Well,"  said  Marthe,  with  a  sigh,  "I  hope 
so,  since  this  is  the  last  day  of  the  year.  If  he 
is  not  found  to-day  all  that  money  is  yours, 
Peter,  dear;  that  is,  if  you  can  make  up  your 
mind  to  marry  me." 

"Such  a  shame,"  said  the  myopic  aunt; 
"but  then,  we  will  hope  he  is  only  another 
impostor." 

"I  hope  no  such  thing,"  retorted  Peter  stur 
dily,  "and  I  am  sure  he  is  not." 

"How  truly  generous  of  you,"  sighed  the 
myopic  aunt.  "And  now  I  think  that  I  shall 
leave  you  for  a  while.  I  feel  that  red  is  win 
ning.  How  soon  do  you  expect  this  person? 
In  an  hour?  Well,  I  may  be  back." 


THE   PAGAN  33 


"Bonne  chance"  said  Marthe. 

"It's  that  awful  zero — "  said  the  myopic 
aunt,  shaking  her  head;  and  she  collected  her 
sack  and  her  gloves  and  her  parasol,  and 
headed  for  the  siren  wheel. 

"And  now,  Marthe,"  said  Peter;  "now  that 
your  brother  is  found,  we  are  free.  I  am  very 
glad;  do  you  know  how  glad,  Marthe?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marthe,  playing  nervously  with 
the  straws  in  her  glass.  "Yes,  I  know." 

"If  we  had  not  found  him,"  Peter  went  on, 
"it  would  have  been  horrible.  As  it  is,  I  dare 
to  tell  you  once  more  how  much  I  love  you, 
Marthe,  and  I  can  ask  you  to  marry  me  with 
a  clear  conscience.  Marthe,  will  you  be  my 
wife?" 

"Peter,"  said  Marthe  slowly,  "I  would  be 
your  wife  if  your  conscience  were  as  black  as 
the  ace  of  spades.  But  you  must  not  think  that 
I  do  not  appreciate  how  unselfish  you  have  been. 
And  Peter,  dear,  I  think  that  father  perhaps 
knew  best — perhaps  he  was  testing  you.  If 
he  was  you  have  won  your  degree  summa  cum 
laude"  and  she  gave  him  her  hand  across  the 
table. 

"God  bless  you,"  said  Peter,  kissing  her  fin 
ger-tips.  An  interested  waiter,  counting  his 
gains,  forgot  his  figures  and  was  forced  to  be 
gin  again.  No  one  else  noticed  them. 

As  the  afternoon  advanced  the  tables  about 
them  filled  rapidly  with  tea-drinking  English 
and  beer  -  drinking  Germans;  a  red -coated 


34  THE   PAGAN 


orchestra  appeared,  to  drown  at  intervals  the 
babel  of  tongues;  laughter  mixed  merrily  with 
the  tinkle  of  glasses;  waiters  sprang  into  life 
with  flying  napkins,  and  the  air  rose  warm  from 
the  ground,  sweet  with  the  scent  of  the  neigh 
boring  flower-beds.  Slowly  tfite  sun  moved 
down  the  sky  toward  the  west  and  the  red  roofs 
•$f  Monaco.  And  still  no  Taillandy. 

Peter  glanced  nervously  at  his  watch.  Half 
past  four. 

"He  is  late,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Marthe;  "it  takes  time  to 
spend  a  thousand  francs.  But,  doubtless,  when 
he  comes  he  will  be  very  beautiful." 

At  five  o'clock,  like  them  of  Darien,  they 
gazed  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise.  In 
vain  did  Marthe  strive  to  keep  her  laughter 
down.  It  rang  free  and  unashamed;  and  soon 
Peter  joined  her  rather  hollowly. 

"Never  mind,  Peter,"  said  Marthe;  "it  is 
only  another  Taillandy  unmasked.  And  it  is 
the  last  impostor  we  shall  meet." 

"Yes,"  replied  Peter  grimly;  "the  last  one." 

"And  Peter,  dear,  it  is  not  going  to  change 
anything  between  you  and  me.  I  will  not  allow 
it  to.  Tell  me  that  that  conscience  of  yours  is 
quiet.  You  did  your  best,  Peter." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter;  "I  did  my  best." 

"And  you  deserve  to  win,"  she  said. 

"I  think,"  said  Peter  softly,  "that  I  have 
won  a  saint." 

"You  have,"  said  Marthe;  "but  your  saint 


THE   PAGAN  35 


is  filled  with  a  very  earthly  love  for  this  beauti 
ful  world  and — for  you." 

Down  the  steps  of  the  Casino  and  across  the 
sun-swept  plaza  came  the  myopic  aunt. 

"Well,"  she  demanded,  peering  about  her, 
"where  is  he?" 

"He  did  not  come,"  said  Marthe. 

The  myopic  aunt  reached  her  chair  with  a 
sigh.  "He  did  not  come,  hein?  Well,  neither 
did  red." 

VI 

A  SHORT  half-hour  later,  about  half  past  five, 
when  the  long,  wavering  shadows  were  merged 
into  the  neutral  tint  of  dusk  and  the  bronze  sun 
had  died  behind  Monaco,  the  impostor  stepped 
cautiously  along  the  terrace  where  Peter  had 
taken  leave  of  him  last.  He  was  dressed  as 
before — no  better;  but  now  he  carried  over  his 
shoulder  a  roll  of  blankets  and  a  knapsack  was 
strapped  to  his  back.  He  was  accoutred  like  a 
French  soldier  on  the  march. 

He  paused  by  the  terrace  railing  to  glance 
at  the  quiet  harbor  below.  Already,  behind 
him,  the  lights  were  lit  in  the  Casino,  and  in 
the  Cafe  de  Paris  the  orchestra  was  playing  to 
the  last  loitering  guests.  It  was  the  hour  of 
transition;  the  lull  between  the  gayety  of  the 
afternoon  and  that  of  the  evening,  when  good, 
fever-fearing  people  seek  four  walls  and  a  roof. 

But  the  shabby  impostor,  evidently  fearless, 


36  THE   PAGAN 


rested  his  lean  arms  on  the  balustrade  and 
breathed  long  and  deep  of  the  soft,  sweet  air, 
borne  to  him  on  the  breeze  from  the  sea's 
scented  islands.  Far  beneath  him  lights  flashed 
out  by  the  harborside  and,  vaguely,  he  could 
trace  the  silvery  lines  of  a  yacht  riding  smoothly 
to  the  ground  swell. 

"Monte  Carlo,"  he  said  aloud,  uyou  are  a 
beautiful  dream  city;  you  are  the  devil's  gilded 
wonderland.  Here  men  with  lustful  hands 
have  built  a  temple  to  the  god  called  Gold,  and 
here  daily  they  come  to  worship.  I,  too,  might 
have  knelt  in  those  aisles  and  bowed  my  head 
beneath  the  gilded  dome.  Sing,  O  muse,  of 
Ferdinand  Taillandy's  sacrifice !  And  yet  was 
it  a  sacrifice  worthy  the  singing?  They  tried 
to  tempt  me  with  their  gold.  'Twelve  million 
francs,'  they  cried,  and  waited  for  me  to  dress 
myself  appropriately  to  receive  it.  Twelve 
million  francs !  Bah !  Twelve  million  burdens 
— twelve  million  fetters  to  bind  me  to  their 
world.  Ferdinand,  you  did  well  to  escape  them 
and  you  are  richer  than  they;  for  have  you  not 
the  sky  and  the  sea  and  the  hills  and  the  sun 
upon  them,  and  twelve  million  stars  to  light 
your  way  by  night?" 

He  turned  his  back  to  the  sea  to  face  the 
mountains,  shining  snow-crowned  against  the 
unquiet  sky.  On  the  path  to  La  Turbie  a  few 
lights  dimmed  and  glowed  small  as  fireflies. 
The  hush  of  evening  hung  about  him  like  a 
heavy  perfume,  all-pervading,  compelling. 


THE   PAGAN  37 


Of  a  sudden,  through  the  dusk,  came  a  figure 
in  white.  It  was  the  myopic  aunt,  feeling  her 
way  along  the  terrace  path.  She  was  wringing 
her  hands  and  making  great  lamentation,  for 
she  had  lost  much  gold.  As  she  drew  near, 
distress  resolved  itself  into  words,  and,  heed 
less  of  who  might  hear,  she  complained  to  the 
stars. 

The  shabby  poet  turned  with  a  quiet  smile 
on  his  lips.  Placing  his  knapsack  on  the  balus 
trade,  he  ran  his  lean  fingers  swiftly  through 
his  pockets  and  drew  out  a  thousand-franc  note. 
He  presented  it  with  a  low  bow. 

"My  poor,  good  woman,"  he  said,  "it  is 
plain  that  you  are  in  distress.  You  have  lost 
everything.  I  give  you  this  the  more  freely 
because  I,  on  the  contrary,  have  all  of  this  won 
derful  world.  May  it  buy  for  you  the  hap 
piness  of  a  moment,  for  by  renouncing  it  I  shall 
gain  the  happiness  of  the  years." 

He  thrust  the  note  into  her  hand.  She 
stopped,  groped  for  her  lorgnon,  desisted,  and 
mechanically  closed  her  fingers  on  the  piece  of 
paper.  Before  she  could  speak  he  left  her. 

He  turned  and,  slinging  his  sack  once  more 
across  his  shoulders,  stretched  out  his  arms  as 
though  reaching  for  his  freedom. 

"I  will  be  true  to  the  gods,"  he  said,  and 
went  up  toward  the  hills  where  they  were  meet 
ing  the  night. 


CITY   OF   LIGHTS 

NOT  far  from  Paris  in  miles,  but  leagues 
away  in  spirit,  is  the  village  of  Evremont-sur- 
Seine.  A  line  of  silvery  poplars  marches  by 
it  in  single  file,  sentinels  of  the  sleeping  river; 
and  behind  it  stretch  cultivated  fields,  green  and 
gold  at  harvest-time,  rolling  gently  away  to  the 
low  horizon.  December  frosts  and  March 
winds  and  April  rains  have  pleasingly  modified 
the  color  scheme  that  man,  in  his  arrogance, 
originally  decreed  for  the  houses  of  Evremont. 
The  tiles  of  the  roofs  glow  red  in  the  sun,  but 
the  walls  that  once  were  stark  white  have  now 
taken  to  themselves  the  subtler  pastel  shades  of 
a  rainbow.  They  seem  to  have  caught  and  held 
the  hues  of  the  thousands  of  suns  that  have  set 
in  their  sight. 

The  cobbled  streets  twist  at  random  through 
the  village,  ending  their  haphazard  careers  se 
dately  enough  at  the  Place  de  la  Fontaine,  the 
public,  square  and  market-place,  which  takes 
the  name  from  a  watering-trough,  and  not  from 
the  great  French  fabler.  In  this  square,  above 
the  watering-trough,  an  enterprising  humane 
society  has  placed  the  only  touch  of  modernity 
in  Evremont — an  enamel  sign  bearing  in  white 
letters  on  a  green  ground  the  warning:  "Soyez 
bon  pour  les  animaux"  I  wonder  if  that  ad- 

38 


CITY   OF   LIGHTS  39 

monition  is  necessary:  I  wonder  if  the  in 
habitants  of  Evremont  are  not  instinctively 
"good  to  the  animals."  My  friend,  Monsieur 
Silvestre,  assures  me  that  they  are. 

Monsieur  Silvestre  is  landlord  of  the  Cafe  du 
Levant,  which  stands  on  the  square  and  naively 
faces  the  church.  That  the  church  does  not 
resent  its  proximity,  however,  is  made  evident 
by  the  fact  that  Monsieur  le  cure  is  a  frequent 
client  of  the  cafe;  indeed,  he  and  Monsieur  Sil 
vestre  are  very  intimate  friends.  Differing  as 
they  emphatically  do  in  faith  and  in  politics, 
they  are  alike  in  that  each  has  a  big  heart  and  a 
fondness  for  dark  beer. 

I  was  not  surprised,  then,  to  find  them,  one 
clean,  cool  day  in  late  April,  sitting  together  un 
der  the  weather-beaten  awning  on  the  sidewalk 
in  front  of  the  Cafe  du  Levant.  I  had  been 
talking  with  Madame  Nicolas  and  her  wistful- 
eyed  daughter,  Veronique.  Madame  Nicolas 
manages  a  little  shop  behind  the  church  and 
Veronique  manages  Madame  Nicolas.  At  the 
shop  are  to  be  bought  all  the  tender,  significant 
symbols  dear  to  the  true  believer  of  the  Roman 
Church — crucifixes  of  ebony  and  of  ivory;  prie- 
dieu  intricately  carved  by  hands  both  zealous 
and  devout;  altar-cloths  over  the  embroidery 
of  which  convent  sisters  have  wearied  their  eyes 
that  God  might  be  the  better  glorified;  rosaries 
worn  smooth  by  trembling,  praying  fingers; 
madonnas  gazing  with  prophetic  eyes  from 
Gothic  frames;  missals  bound  in  vellum  as 


40  THE   PAGAN 


white  as  the  souls  of  the  children  that  have  held 
them;  candlesticks  of  gleaming  brass,  polished 
anew  by  Madame  Nicolas  or  by  Veronique; 
small  statues  of  angels,  of  martyrs,  of  prophets, 
and  of  saints,  and  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers 
to  honor  the  graves  of  the  dead.  Not  all  of 
these  objects  are  beautiful — many  of  them,  in 
deed,  the  newer  ones,  are  glaringly  ugly.  But 
Madame  Nicolas  has  no  favorites;  she  yearns 
over  them  all. 

Living  and  loving  and  working  in  such  sur 
roundings,  it  is  not  strange  that  Madame 
Nicolas  has  become  imbued  with  something  of 
their  gentleness  and  simplicity.  She  is  a  quiet- 
eyed  old  lady,  whose  white  hair  is  brushed 
smoothly  back  under  her  white  cap,  whose 
motherly  bosom  is  crossed  by  the  ends  of  a 
black,  knitted  shawl,  whose  feet  tread  the  dim 
aisles  of  her  shop  in  noiseless  felt  slippers,  and 
whose  hands  are  worn  and  lined  from  serving 
her  neighbors  and  her  Lord. 

During  my  short  stay  at  Evremont  I  had 
been  a  frequent  visitor  at  Madame  Nicolas's 
shop,  sometimes  making  a  trifling  purchase, 
more  often  acquiring  nothing  more  tangible 
than  a  certain  serenity  of  mind  which  is  not  to 
be  bought.  In  my  profession  as  artist  Madame 
Nicolas  valued  me  overhighly,  I  fear;  but  I 
console  myself  with  the  reflection  that  I  was  able 
to  point  out  to  her  several  articles  in  her  posses 
sion,  the  real  value  of  which  (to  an  antiquarian, 
at  least)  she  had  sadly  underrated.  Thus,  per- 


CITY    OF   LIGHTS  41 

haps,  the  benefits  were  not  entirely  on  one  side. 

I  had  come,  then,  from  the  shop  of  Madame 
Nicolas  on  an  April  day,  and  crossing  the  square 
to  the  Cafe  du  Levant  had  discovered  Mon 
sieur  Silvestre  and  the  cure  sitting  behind  two 
tall  glasses  of  dark  beer. 

"Good  afternoon,  Monsieur  Craddock,"  said 
the  cure;  "the  day  is  fine  and  the  beer  is  good; 
will  you  not  join  us?" 

"The  beer  is  always  good  at  the  Cafe  du 
Levant,"  I  answered,  with  a  bow  to  Monsieur 
Silvestre. 

"That  remark,"  observed  the  cure  with  a 
smile,  "will  surely  serve  to  cement  the  entente 
cordlale" 

Monsieur  Silvestre  indicated  his  pleasure  by 
placing  an  iron  chair  for  me  at  the  table  and 
calling  loudly  for  the  waiter. 

"C'est  le  patron  qui  pale"  said  he. 

"You  will  ruin  yourself,"  I  objected. 

"Bah!  It  is  not  every  day  that  we  have, 
gathered  here  together,  such  an  illustrious  trio. 
Commerce,  the  Church,  and  the  Fine  Arts !" 

"You  have  reason  to  say  it,"  agreed  the  cure. 
"And  in  such  a  case,  I  may  add  without  offence, 
I  hope,  to  Monsieur  Craddock — in  such  a  case 
it  is  usually  Commerce  that  pays  for  the  beer." 
Saying  which,  he  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips, 
emptied  it,  and  set  it  back  on  the  table  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"You  have  come  from  Madame  Nicolas?" 
queried  Monsieur  Silvestre. 


42  THE   PAGAN 


I  admitted  that  I  had. 

uAn  excellent  woman,"  said  he. 

"A  sermon  without  words,"  said  the  cure. 

"An  unhaloed  saint,"  suggested  Monsieur 
Silvestre. 

The  priest  held  up  his  hand. 

"Rarer  than  that,"  he  declared;  "for  she  is 
a  saint  that  strives  to  live  rightly  rather  than 
to  die  nobly.  That  is  the  essence  of  Christian- 
ity." 

"I  am  no  Catholic,"  said  Monsieur  Silvestre, 
"but  I  know  and  respect  a  good  woman  when 
I  see  one.  Madame  Nicolas  has  had  a  hard 
life.  It  is  well  that  she  has  a  faith." 

The  cure  smiled  quietly  and  passed  a  hand 
across  his  smooth  chin. 

"Must  one  be  afflicted  to  believe?"  he  mur 
mured.  "Pray,  then,  Monsieur  Silvestre,  to 
be  afflicted." 

"That  does  not  follow — "  began  the  land 
lord  vehemently,  when,  foreseeing  a  dispute, 
I  ventured  to  interrupt. 

"You  say  that  Madame  Nicolas  has  had  a 
hard  life.  Might  I  inquire  how,  and  why?" 

At  this  Monsieur  Silvestre  and  the  cure  ex 
changed  questioning  glances;  and  Monsieur 
Silvestre  nodded  his  head. 

"Tell  him  the  story,"  he  said. 

The  cure,  shifting  his  glass,  studied  the  wet 
ring  it  left  on  the  iron  table.  Then  he  replaced 
it  carefully  and  accurately  and  crossed  his  hands 
in  his  lap. 


CITY   OF   LIGHTS  43 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "there  is  a  story." 

I  settled  myself  to  listen.  Monsieur  Silvestre 
drew  a  packet  of  tobacco  from  his  pocket  and 
dexterously  rolled  himself  a  cigarette.  Then 
he,  too,  settled  himself  to  listen,  but  as  one  who 
has  heard  the  story  before  and  is  prepared  to 
interrupt  if  the  telling  of  it  be  not  to  his  satis 
faction. 

"Madame  Nicolas,"  began  the  cure,  "is  not 
a  woman  who  cries  out  her  troubles  from  the 
house-tops.  She  has  never  come  to  me  to  com 
plain  of  her  fate,  but  she  has  come  often  to  me 
for  advice  and  counsel.  The  greater  part  of 
what  I  am  about  to  tell  you  I  had  from  Veron- 
ique;  and  I  need  not  assure  you  that  I  am  be 
traying  no  confidences.  All  Evremont,  alas! 
knows  the  story. 

"Madame  Nicolas's  husband,  an  educated 
man,  a  government  official  in  the  post-office  de 
partment  here  at  Evremont,  died  about  ten 
years  ago " 

"Nine,"  corrected  Monsieur  Silvestre. 

"Died,  then,  nine  years  ago,  leaving  Madame 
Nicolas  with  two  daughters  and  a  mere  shadow 
of  a  pension.  The  girls  were  nearly  of  an  age 
— Veronique  at  that  time  was  eleven  and  Diane 
was  a  scant  year  younger." 

"Eleven  months  younger,"  volunteered  Mon 
sieur  Silvestre. 

"Exactly,"  agreed  the  cure.  "Well,  they 
were  delightful  little  children,  both  of  them. 
I  instructed  them  for  their  first  communion — 


44  THE   PAGAN 


how  well  I  remember!  Veronique  was  very 
pious — she  wrapped  herself  up  in  her  faith  as  in 
a  shining,  white  mantle;  and  she  hid  her  eyes 
that  they  might  not  look  on  evil.  Such  unques 
tioning  belief  I  had  never  before  seen.  I  was 
afraid  for  her;  her  feet  were  not  fixed  upon  the 
earth. 

"Diane  was  different.  Diane  was  a  good 
child,  but  she  was  more — how  shall  I  say  it? — 
more  mortal.  Her  little  sins  were  like  yours 
and  mine.  She  overate,  she  lost  her  temper  at 
times,  she  made  malicious  speeches,  she  lied 
once  or  twice,  she  adored,  but  occasionally  dis 
obeyed,  her  mother — you  know,  all  harmless, 
natural  little  offences  which  she  instantly  and 
deeply  regretted.  I  remember  that  she  especi 
ally  enjoyed  setting  the  dog  after  the  cows 
down  in  the  pasture  by  the  river.  She  told  me 
with  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks  that  in 
spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of  her  knowledge  that 
it  was  wrong,  she  derived  a  very  unholy  pleasure 
from  seeing  the  poor  cows  racing  madly  about 
the  field  with  the  dog  barking  at  their  heels. 
And  she  had  no  sooner  confessed  to  this  hor 
rible  depravity  than  she  commenced  to  laugh 
at  the  recollection  of  the  scene.  Oh,  yes,  she 
was  very  human!  She  was  a  source  of  great 
grief  to  Veronique,  who  feared  for  the  loss  of 
her  soul.  But  Madame  Nicolas  did  not  worry — 
or  if  she  did  it  was  not  for  Diane.  Madame 
Nicolas  had  started  her  shop,  then,  and  was 
earning  enough  to  keep  them  all  clothed  and 


CITY   OF   LIGHTS  45 

fed,  with  a  little  to  set  aside  at  the  end  of  each 
year  as  a  dowry  for  the  two  girls.  You  see 
she  wanted  them  to  be  in  a  position  to  marry 
well  when  the  time  should  come. 

"Veronique  did  not  want  to  marry.  She 
wanted  to  enter  a  convent  and  take  the  veil. 
Both  Madame  Nicolas  and  I — God  forgive 
me — discouraged  her  in  the  desire.  At  least 
we  urged  her  to  wait — to  make  no  hasty  de 
cision.  And  she  waited.  And  while  she  waited 
there  came,  of  course,  a  man.  A  man  or  the 
devil  always  comes  when  a  woman  is  waiting." 

"Sometimes  both,"  suggested  Monsieur 
Silvestre. 

"In  this  case,"  said  the  cure,  "it  was  both — 
the  devil  in  the  form  of  a  man." 

The  cure  hesitated  and  sighed.  It  was  only 
too  evident  that  this  part  of  the  story  distressed 
him,  that  he  shrank  from  putting  the  baseness 
of  the  world  into  words.  But  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  grief  or  anger  that  troubled  his 
voice  when  he  continued. 

"The  man,"  he  said,  "was  a  lieutenant  in  a 
Zouave  regiment  that  was  quartered  near  Evre- 
mont  during  some  manoeuvres.  He  was  very 
handsome  in  scarlet  and  blue  with  shining  but 
tons  and  epaulets.  And  he  had  large  brown 
eyes  and  a  gallant  black  mustache.  And  he 
ranged  the  world  like  a  roaring  lion  seeking 
whom  he  might  devour.  I  will  say  no  more. 
He  is  dead,  and  de  mortuis  nil — well,  you  know 
the  phrase.  I  forget  my  Latin." 


46  THE   PAGAN 


"De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum,"  supplied 
Monsieur  Silvestre,  greatly  to  my  surprise;  and 
then  he  added  reproachfully:  "You  have  never 
forgotten  it  before." 

The  cure  shrugged. 

"Let  us  get  on  with  the  story,"  he  said.  "At 
first  Veronique  met  this  lieutenant  of  Zouaves 
— his  name  was  Max  Tourelle — openly  and 
with  the  knowledge  of  Madame  Nicolas  and 
myself.  But  we  mistrusted  him  from  the  be 
ginning — he  was  too  handsome,  too  swaggering 
for  our  taste.  Veronique  believed  in  him  im 
plicitly,  and  when  he  spoke  of  love  to  her  she 
hugged  his  words  to  her  heart.  And  she  gave 
over  her  soul  from  God's  keeping  into  his.  Ma 
dame  Nicolas  pleaded  with  her;  I  pleaded  with 
her;  Diane  cried  herself  to  sleep  every  night. 
But  Veronique  did  not  cry.  She  was  eighteen 
and  very  much  in  love,  and  we  seemed  to  her 
like  mourners  at  a  feast.  She  could  not  under 
stand  our  attitude. 

"One  night — the  night  the  camp  broke  up 
and  the  regiment  was  ordered  back  to  the  city 
— she  stole  out  of  the  house,  joined  him,  and 
ran  away  with  him  to  Paris  to  be  married.  .  .  . 
Of  course  he  did  not  marry  her." 

"He  left  her  and  she  came  back  to  Evre- 
mont?"  I  asked. 

The  cure  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "he  did  not  leave  her,  and 
she  did  not  come  back  to  Evremont  for  a  long 
time." 


CITY   OF  LIGHTS  47 

"Poor  Madame  Nicolas,"  I  murmured. 

"Poor  Veronique,"  said  Monsieur  Silvestre. 

"Poor  Diane,"  said  the  cure,  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  my  mystification. 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"Well,"  urged  Monsieur  Silvestre  impa 
tiently,  "continue." 

"I  continue,"  said  the  cure.  "The  next  morn 
ing  Madame  Nicolas  came  to  me  at  sunrise. 
I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  was  still  in  bed;  but  I 
threw  on  my  soutane  in  haste  and  received  her. 
She  was  very  white,  I  remember,  and  she  was 
trembling;  but  she  did  not  break  down. 

"  'I  have  lost  my  daughter/  she  said — 'I  have 
lost  Veronique.'  And  then  she  repeated  it 
again :  'I  have  lost  my  daughter — I  have  lost 
Veronique.' 

"That  was  all  she  said;  but  I  knew,  of  course, 
what  had  happened.  I  had  feared  it. 

"I  quoted  no  scripture  to  console  her,  al 
though  a  hundred  phrases  came  to  my  lips.  I 
took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  out  to  my 
little  garden  where  we  could  see  the  sun  com 
ing  up  behind  the  hills  and  the  morning  breeze 
stirring  the  poplars  by  the  river.  And  I  said: 
Madame  Nicolas,  do  you  see  the  sun?'  and  she 
answered :  Tes.'  And  I  said :  'Madame  Nico 
las,  do  you  see  the  river  and  the  trees  and  the 
grass  with  the  wind  upon  them?'  And  she  an 
swered:  'Yes.'  And  I  said:  'Do  you  see  the 
clouds,  rose  and  mauve  and  gray,  and  the  stars 


48  THE   PAGAN 


paling  up  there  in  the  sky?'  And  she  again 
answered:  Tes.' 

"Then  I  said:  'Madame  Nicolas,  God  is 
watching  over  the  sun,  and  it  is  His  will  that  it 
shall  rise ;  and  God  is  watching  over  the  river, 
and  it  is  His  will  that  it  shall  flow  to  the  sea ; 
and  God  is  watching  over  the  trees  and  the 
grass,  and  it  is  His  will  that  the  wind  shall  be 
upon  them;  and  God  is  watching  over  the 
clouds  and  the  stars  and  as  they  are,  so  He  wills 
that  they  shall  be.  Do  you  not,  then,  believe 
that  God  is  watching  over  your  daughter  and 
that  His  will  shall  be  done?" 

The  cure  paused  and  Monsieur  Silvestre, 
much  affected  but  eager  to  prove  his  iconoclasm, 
said:  "That  is  all  very  well,  but,  after  all,  the 
sun  and  the  river  and  the  trees  and  the  clouds 
and  the  stars  are  coming  to  no  harm.  It  is 
only  we  poor  mortals  that  have  to  look  out  for 
ourselves.  Where  should  we  land  if  we  did 
not? — I  ask  you." 

The  cure  regarded  him  scornfully. 

"I  was  speaking  at  the  time  to  a  Catholic," 
he  said,  "not  to  a  heretic.  Heretics  must  look 
out  for  themselves ;  for  I  am  not  sure  just  how 
much  interest  le  Bon  Dieu  takes  in  them." 

Perceiving  that  Monsieur  Silvestre  had  a 
spirited  retort  at  his  lips,  I  interposed  quickly, 
begging  the  cure  to  proceed. 

"Well,  Madame  Nicolas  went  home  com 
forted,  and  in  ten  days  she  received  a  little  note 
from  Veronique.  I  remember  the  words  of  it 


CITY    OF   LIGHTS  49 

as  well  as  I  remember  the  Pater  Noster.  She 
said:  'I  am  in  Paris  with  Max  and  am  very 
happy.  Yesterday  we  went  up  the  Eiffel  Tower. 
We  are  to  be  married  very  soon.  I  adore  Paris 
and  I  worship  Max.  Do  not  worry  about  me, 
for  I  am  completely  happy.  That  is  to  say,  I 
shall  be  completely  happy  if  you  forgive  me.' 

"Madame  Nicolas  tried  to  obtain  comfort 
from  the  assurance  that  they  were  to  be  mar 
ried  soon.  As  for  me,  I  fear  I  was  not  so  trust 
ing;  for  I  saw  in  Veronique's  repeated  assertion 
that  she  was  happy  merely  a  defiant  endeavor 
to  persuade  herself  that  she  was  not  horribly 
unhappy.  There  are  times  when  I  am  no  op 
timist.  That  is  perhaps  because  it  has  been  my 
blessed  privilege  for  many  years  to  minister 
unto  misery. 

"Poor  Veronique  had  not  dared  to  give  her 
address  in  the  letter,  and  it  was  a  long  time  be 
fore  we  were  able  to  locate  her.  Paris  is  a 
large  city,  and  the  Veroniques  in  it  do  not  make 
themselves  conspicuous.  Finally,  at  the  request 
of  Madame  Nicolas,  who  was  only  too  willing 
to  forgive,  I  myself  went  in  search  of  the  girl. 
It  was  not  my  first  visit  to  Paris,  messieurs. 
No,  indeed,  I  have  travelled  a  great  deal :  I 
have  been  three  times  to  Paris  and  twice  to  Ly 
ons  and  it  was  but  six  years  ago  that  I  should 
have  journeyed  to  Rome  had  not  my  neuralgia 
come  upon  me  the  day  before  I  was  to  leave. 

"Diane  begged  to  accompany  me.  She  was 
sure  that  if  she  might  see  her  sister  and  talk 


50  THE   PAGAN 


with  her  she  could  persuade  her  to  return. 
Veronique  had  always  loved  Diane  and  had 
never  been  able  to  say  no  to  her  in  anything  she 
desired.  But  I  thought  it  better  for  her  not 
to  come.  I  think  that  I  was  wrong.  If  I  was 
I  can  only  plead  that  it  was  an  error  in  judg 
ment,  not  in  intention. 

"I  went  alone,  then,  and  after  three  days  I 
found  Veronique.  She  was  living  in  a  little 
room  in  the  house  on  the  rue  des  Saints-Peres; 
and  Max  had  not  married  her.  During  the  day 
she  worked  in  a  confiserie,  selling  cakes  and 
sweetmeats  and  earning  two  francs  a  day.  That 
seems  good  pay  to  us  here  in  Evremont,  but  I 
am  told  that  it  is  nothing  in  Paris.  She  ex 
plained  that  Max  was  not  rich  and  that  she 
did  not  wish  to  be  a  burden  to  him.  I  was  able 
to  perceive  immediately  (although  she  tried 
bravely  to  conceal  her  misgivings)  that  she 
doubted  if  he  would  ever  marry  her.  The  sur 
prise  of  seeing  me  broke  down  her  guard  and 
she  wept  on  my  shoulder.  She  had  come  at  last 
to  realize  the  importance  of  what  she  had  done; 
but,  quite  naturally,  she  still  clung  to  Max  as 
her  salvation.  Her  only  hope  lay  in  him.  And 
it  was  against  this  hope  that  springs  eternal 
that  I  was  forced  to  fight.  I  lost  the  fight." 

"That  was  but  natural,"  observed  Monsieur 
Silvestre.  "Max  had  it  in  his  power  to  make 
her  an  honest  woman  by  marrying  her :  he  could 
undo  what  he  had  done,  but  you  could  not.  You 


CITY   OF   LIGHTS  51 

could  but  offer  her  consolation  and  spiritual 
absolution." 

uPrecisely,"  agreed  the  cure.  "I  came  to 
her  either  too  soon  or  too  late.  Had  I  come 
sooner  I  might  have  been  in  time  to  save  her; 
had  I  come  later  she  would  have  had  oppor 
tunity  to  become  convinced  that  Max  was  a 
scoundrel,  and  I  could  have  won  her  away  from 
him.  As  it  was  I  came  back  to  Evremont,  my 
hands  empty,  but  my  heart  full  to  overflowing. 

"A  year  passed,  and  two  years.  Madame 
Nicolas,  uncomplaining  and  dignified  in  her 
sorrow,  tended  the  little  shop  with  Diane;  and 
every  night  they  prayed  to  the  Mother  of  God 
to  be  kind  to  Veronique  and  to  remember  that 
she  was  very  young.  And  Madame  Nicolas 
suddenly  seemed  to  grow  very  old. 

"On  a  certain  night  Madame  Nicolas  had  a 
dream.  At  the  time  we  both  thought  it  a  divine 
revelation,  but  subsequent  events  caused  us  to 
doubt  that  it  emanated  from  heaven.  So  we 
have  since  called  it  simply  a  dream." 

"Ha !"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Silvestre,  "you 
pretend  to  claim " 

"I  claim  nothing,"  interrupted  the  cure 
severely.  "I  state  our  belief — no  more.  I  have 
a  right  to  a  belief;  you,  who  are  an  agnostic, 
have  not;  you  cannot  even  believe  that  you  are 
an  agnostic,  for  an  agnostic  is  one  who  believes 
nothing." 

Monsieur  Silvestre  found  no  answer  and  the 
cure  continued. 


52  THE   PAGAN 


"Madame  Nicolas  dreamed  that  night  that 
she  saw  Veronique  and  Diane  together,  clasped 
in  each  other's  arms.  Veronique  was  weeping 
bitterly  and  Diane  was  soothing  her  and  com 
forting  her  and  stroking  her  bright  hair  with 
gentle,  sisterly  hands.  And  Veronique  was  cry 
ing  because  she  had  lost  the  little  silver  cross 
that  had  hung  on  a  slender  chain  at  her  breast 
since  the  day  of  her  first  communion.  Then,  in 
a  dream,  Madame  Nicolas  saw  Diane  unclasp 
her  own  little  silver  cross  and  give  it  Veronique. 
And  when  she  had  done  so  she  went  very  white 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept.  But 
Veronique,  seeing  her  sister's  distress,  refused 
at  first  to  take  the  cross;  and  it  was  not  until 
Diane,  between  her  sobs,  had  urged  her  and 
pleaded  with  her  for  a  long  time  that  she  con 
sented  to  do  so.  Then  she  clasped  the  chain 
at  her  neck  and  peace  came  into  her  eyes  and 
she  was  comforted. 

"Madame  Nicolas  the  next  morning  told 
Diane  of  her  dream  and  they  agreed  that  it  had 
come  from  le  Bon  Dieu,  that  it  clearly  meant 
that  Diane  should  go  to  Paris  and  see  her  sister 
and  cheer  her  and  prevail  on  her  to  come  back 
to  Evremont  and  be  forgiven.  Diane,  con 
scious  of  her  power  with  Veronique,  was  en 
thusiastic  and  eager  to  start  at  once.  She  had 
no  fear  of  the  city,  nor  would  she  hear  of  Ma 
dame  Nicolas  or  myself  accompanying  her.  She 
pointed  out  that  in  the  dream  she  had  been 
alone  with  Veronique,  that  this  was  obviously 


CITY   OF  LIGHTS  53 

the  desire  of  le  Bon  Dieu,  and  that  to  disregard 
His  manifest  wish  would  be  to  show  ourselves 
ungrateful  and  might  well  displease  Him.  In 
the  end  she  convinced  us  that  she  was  right. 

"The  next  day  we  put  her  on  the  train  for 
Paris.  I  gave  her  minute  directions  how  she 
should  find  Veronique,  but  she  scarcely  heeded 
them.  Le  Bon  Dieu,  she  said,  would  show  her 
the  way  and  guard  her  steps.  She  was  so  happy, 
so  confident  of  her  success,  that  we  could  not 
but  share  some  of  her  elation." 

The  cure  paused  to  moisten  his  lips  and  drain 
his  glass.  Monsieur  Silvestre,  for  once,  made 
no  comment. 

"What  happened  in  Paris,"  the  cure  resumed, 
"I  had  from  Veronique.  Diane,  arriving  at  the 
Gare  Saint-Lazare  at  ten  o'clock " 

"At  ten-seven,"  corrected  Monsieur  Silvestre. 

"Diane,  arriving  at  ten-seven,  went  straight 
to  the  confiserie  and  found  her  sister  with  no 
delay  whatever.  I  can  imagine  the  meeting. 
It  is  certain  that  there  were  many  kisses  and  a 
few  tears.  It  is  good  for  the  young  to  cry  a 
little. 

"Veronique  immediately  requested  and  ob 
tained  a  half-holiday.  The  patronne  was  big- 
hearted  and  had  a  sister  of  her  own,  in  Dijon, 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  seven  years.  I  think 
the  patronne  shed  a  few  tears,  too,  from 
sympathy. 

"Veronique  and  Diane  walked  out  of  the 
shop,  with  their  arms  about  each  other's  waists, 


54  THE   PAGAN 


just  as  they  used  to  walk  to  the  pasture  down 
here  by  the  river,  when  they  were  little  girls. 
And  it  seemed  to  them,  for  a  while,  at  least,  as 
if  nothing  had  changed,  nothing  had  come  be 
tween  them  since  those  far-away  days.  But 
once  or  twice  Veronique  would  stop  short  in  the 
middle  of  a  laugh  and  once  or  twice  her  fingers 
would  seek  Diane's  and  press  them  so  hard 
that  it  hurt. 

"Veronique  led  the  way  to  her  room  in  the 
rue  des  Saint-Peres,  for  she  wanted  to  change 
from  her  working-clothes  into  her  best  dress. 
She  wanted,  you  see,  to  make  it  a  jour  de  fete. 

"  'You  will  stop  the  night  here  with  me, 
Diane,  will  you  not?'  she  asked. 

"Diane  did  not  hesitate  an  instant. 

"  'It  will  be  better,  Veronique,  if  we  both  go 
back  to  Evremont  this  evening.  I  have  come 
to  bring  you  home.' 

"But  Veronique  shrank  away. 

"  'No,'  she  said  slowly,  'I  cannot  go  home.' 

"Diane  threw  herself  to  her  knees  in  front 
of  her  sister. 

"  'We  are  breaking  our  hearts  waiting  for 
you,'  she  said.  'It  is  for  our  sake  that  we  ask 
you  to  come.  Have  pity.' 

"But  Veronique  shook  her  head. 

"  'I  cannot  leave  Max.' 

"  'Our  mother  is  getting  old,'  urged  Diane. 
'She  needs  you.  The  two  years  that  you  have 
been  gone  have  seemed  very  long  and  bitter 
to  her.' 


CITY   OF   LIGHTS  55 

"  'So  have  they  seemed  to  me,'  said  Veron- 
ique,  but  so  low  that  Diane  scarce  heard  her. 
'Come,'  she  continued,  'let  us  not  spoil  our  one 
day  together.  We  will  discuss  it  to-morrow. 
Meanwhile  I  shall  show  you  many  wonderful 
things,  for  Paris  is  a  beautiful  city — especially 
in  April  when  the  sun  is  shining.' 

"Diane  then  saw  that  for  the  present  she 
could  gain  nothing  by  persevering.  So  she  de 
termined  to  bide  her  time  patiently.  She  did 
not  despair  for  an  instant. 

"While  she  washed  her  hands  and  face  her 
sister  got  into  a  beautiful  gown.  It  was  blue, 
I  think,  and  had  some  marvellous  lace  at  the 
neck  and  wrists.  Max  had  bought  it  for  her  in 
a  shop  on  the  rue  de  Rivoli.  Diane  had  never 
seen  its  equal  before,  and  I  am  afraid  that  she 
looked  on  it  with  covetous  eyes.  Diane,  as  I 
told  you,  was  very  human. 

"When  they  were  ready  Veronique  took  her 
sister's  hand  and  they  went  out  into  the  streets. 
They  walked  for  miles.  They  saw  the  Louvre 
and  the  Vendome  column  and  Notre  Dame. 
When  they  stopped  in  front  of  Notre  Dame, 
Diane  gave  a  little  gasp  and  the  tears  started 
to  her  eyes.  It  was  so  beautiful  that  it  made 
her  cry.  And,  without  thinking,  she  begged 
that  they  go  in  to  pray. 

"Veronique  drew  sharply  away  that  Diane 
might  not  see  her  face. 

"  'Come,'  she  said;  'we  will  not  go  in.1 


56  THE   PAGAN 


"But  her  voice  trembled  so  much  that  Diane 
understood. 

"They  turned  and  walked  up  the  quai  beside 
the  swollen  river. 

"  'Look,'  said  Diane,  'it  is  the  same  dear  old 
Seine  that  flows  by  the  pasture  at  home  where 
the  cows  are.  Do  you  remember  how  one  could 
see  the  reflections  of  the  poplars  marching  along 
in  it  upside  down?  Do  you  remember  how 
blue  it  was  at  noon,  and  how  silver  it  was  at 
evening?' 

"  'Yes,1  said  Veronique.  'In  Paris  it  is  neither 
blue  nor  silver  very  often.' 

"They  purchased  a  lunch  at  a  bakery  and 
ate  it  under  the  trees  in  the  Tuileries,  like  the 
midinettes.  Then  they  crossed  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  and  Veronique  pointed  out  the  monu 
ment  of  Alsace-Lorraine  and  the  wreaths  with 
which  a  bereaved  nation  had  dressed  it. 

u  'There  are  flowers  in  front  of  your  picture 
at  home,'  said  Diane.  But  Veronique  answered 
nothing. 

"They  walked  slowly  up  the  Champs-Elysees, 
watching  the  automobiles  and  carriages  go  by, 
filled  with  gay  people  in  beautiful  clothes. 
Diane's  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement.  It  was 
all  very  strange  to  her  and  beautiful  and  daz 
zling;  and,  as  you  know,  the  Champs-Elysees 
has  a  great  chic  in  the  afternoon.  Before  they 
had  reached  the  Rond-Point  a  troop  of  the  Re 
publican  Guard  rode  by — great  giants  of  men, 
with  plumes  waving  and  cuirasses  gleaming  and 


CITY   OF  LIGHTS  57 

horses  fretting  and  tossing  their  heads.  It  was 
a  sight  to  stir  one's  blood.  Diane,  in  her  ex 
citement,  clung  close  to  her  sister;  and  Ve- 
ronique,  who  had  seen  it  all  before,  laughed  at 
her  and  teased  her  for  being  line  petite  pro- 
vinciale. 

"Then  they  went  to  a  guignol — oh,  they  saw 
all  the  wonderful  sights  of  Paris!  And  they 
both  laughed  a  great  deal  and  chattered  merrily 
and  enjoyed  themselves  just  as  they  used  to  do 
when  the  circus  came  to  Evremont. 

"Presently  Veronique  stopped  short  in  the 
middle  of  a  laugh,  caught  her  breath  sharply, 
and  said:  'Come,  we  must  return  to  the  rue 
des  Saints-Peres.  Max  will  be  waiting.  He  has 
promised  to  take  me  to  dinner,  and  if  I  am  late 
he  becomes  impatient.' 

"It  was  the  first  time  that  Veronique  had 
alluded  to  Max,  and  Diane  felt  suddenly  em 
barrassed  and  ill  at  ease.  She  did  not  know 
quite  what  to  say.  Veronique  must  have  mis 
understood  her  sister's  confusion,  for  she  said : 
'You  will  have  dinner  with  us,  too,  of  course.' 

"But  Diane  hung  back. 

'There  is  a  train  for  Evremont,'  she  said. 
'I  can  catch  it  if  I  hurry.  Oh,  Veronique,  we 
can  catch  it  if  we  hurry!' 

"Veronique  shook  her  head. 

"  'Not  yet,'  she  said  gently.  'I  cannot  go  yet, 
Diane.  Perhaps  to-morrow.  We  shall  see. 
Wait  until  to-morrow.' 

"So  they  returned  to  the  rue  des  Saints-Peres. 


58  THE   PAGAN 


Max  was  waiting,  and  he  seemed  not  at  all  dis 
pleased  to  have  an  addition  to  their  dinner 
party.  He  was  very  gay  and  dashing  and 
cracked  a  great  many  funny  jokes  that  set  Diane 
laughing  in  spite  of  herself.  And  he  appeared 
to  have  plenty  of  money  to  spend. 

'We  will  dine  this  evening  en  prince!'  he 
cried.  'Nothing  is  too  good  for  our  little  coun 
try  sister.  Behold!  I  have  twenty-two  francs! 
We  will  spend  it  all — every  centime.' 

"I  have  forgotten  the  name  of  the  restaurant 
where  he  took  them  to  dine;  but  no  matter,  I 
should  never  have  occasion  to  go  there,  myself 
— it  is  far  too  expensive.  I  know,  however, 
that  it  was  near  the  Gare  du  Montparnasse. 
A  dinner  cost  three  francs-fifty,  vin  compris. 
Think  of  the  extravagance,  messieurs !  And 
Max  gave  a  franc  to  the  waiter  as  a  pourboire. 
Truly,  Parisians  care  nothing  for  their  money ! 

"There  was  an  orchestra  and  a  great  mu 
sician  that  played  divinely  on  the  violin.  Max 
asked  Diane  if  she  did  not  want  him  to  play 
some  favorite  tune  of  hers,  and  she  clapped  her 
hands,  delighted,  and  begged  for  Fenite  Adore- 
mus.  Max  laughed  very  loudly,  but  the  mu 
sician  had  heard  her  and  he  played  it.  He  must 
have  played  it  very  wonderfully,  for  Veronique 
tells  me  that  it  made  her  cry,  although  she  did 
not  want  to  because  it  always  made  Max  angry 
when  she  cried. 

"Every  one  in  the  restaurant  looked  around 
at  Diane,  and  smiled  and  nudged  each  other  and 


CITY   OF  LIGHTS  59 

laughed  because  she  had  chosen  a  tune  that  is 
not  played  in  restaurants.  But  the  musician  saw 
them  laughing  and  became  furious  and  cried: 
'Canaille!  If  you  have  no  respect  for  good 
music  I  shall  play  no  more.'  And  he  packed 
up  his  violin  and  went  out. 

"There  followed,  of  course,  much  excitement. 
The  proprietor  was  vexed  and  the  clients  were 
vexed  and  Max  was  in  a  rage  and  hurried  Ve- 
ronique  and  Diane  out  of  the  cafe. 

"He  took  them  then  to  a  music-hall,  where 
they  sat  in  the  very  front  row  of  the  gallery. 
Diane  loved  the  performance,  although  she 
could  not  understand  much  that  was  said  be 
cause  it  was  mostly  in  the  Parisian  argot.  But 
there  was  a  tableau  of  Napoleon  bidding  fare 
well  to  the  Old  Guard  that  was  extremely  beau 
tiful  and,  doubtless,  of  great  historical  interest. 
But  the  Old  Guard  were  women  in  very  close- 
fitting  uniforms — which  seemed  strange. 

"In  any  case  the  representation  put  Max  in 
a  good  humor  again,  and  he  suggested  that  they 
go  to  the  Pantheon  for  supper.  At  first  Diane 
thought  that  he  meant  the  Pantheon  with  the 
big  dome — she  had  pictures  of  it  on  postal  cards 
— and  she  was  surprised  to  think  that  people 
went  there  for  supper.  But  Max  explained 
that  he  meant  a  different  place  altogether;  he 
meant  the  Taverne  du  Pantheon,  which  is  a 
cafe  with  music  and  dancing. 

"Diane  enjoyed  herself  hugely.  Max  met 
some  friends  from  his  regiment  and  brought 


60  THE   PAGAN 


them  up  and  introduced  them  to  her ;  and  they 
asked  her  to  dance.  She  danced  the  polka  very 
gracefully,  but  they  taught  her  some  new  steps 
that  we  do  not  dance  here  at  Evremont.  Before 
they  knew  it,  it  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Think  of  it,  my  friends ! 

"As  they  walked  home  by  the  side  of  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens,  Diane  was  quiet  and  sad. 
She  felt,  you  see,  that  she  had  been  too  easily 
led  to  forget  the  object  of  her  mission.  She  was 
very  glad  when  Max  said  good-night  to  them 
and  left  them  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  the 
rue  des  Saints-Peres;  and  she  determined  that 
she  would  not  sleep  that  night  until  she  should 
have  had  a  long  talk  with  Veronique  and  used 
all  her  persuasions. 

"Veronique,  holding  a  candle,  lighted  the  way 
up  the  five  flights  of  twisting  stairs,  and  with 
every  step  Diane's  heart  grew  heavier,  for  she 
knew  that  if  she  did  not  succeed  in  making  Ve 
ronique  listen  to  her  that  night,  she  should  never 
succeed  at  all. 

"When  they  reached  the  room  Veronique 
immediately  started  to  undress;  and  it  was  then 
that  Diane  noticed  that  her  sister  no  longer 
wore  the  little  silver  cross  about  her  neck.  This 
discovery  startled  her  and  awed  her,  for  she 
recalled  Madame  Nicolas's  dream  and  she  was 
sure  that  she  saw  in  it  the  hand  of  God. 

"  'What  are  you  looking  at,  Diane  ?'  asked 
Veronique. 

"  'You  have  lost  your  silver  cross,'  faltered 


CITY   OF  LIGHTS  61 

Diane — 'or  is  it  that  you  no  longer  care  to 
wear  it?' 

"Veronique  instinctively  put  her  hand  to  her 
breast,  searching  with  her  fingers.  Then  she 
desisted  and  nodded  her  head  sadly. 

u  'I  have  lost  it,'  said  she.  'The  chain  broke 
and  I  lost  it — two  years  ago — the  night  I  left 
Evremont.  But  even  now  I  cannot  realize  that 
it  is  gone.  Always  I  am  feeling  for  it;  and  al 
ways  it  is  not  there ;  and  always  I  am  surprised 
until  I  remember  —  until  I  remember.  Oh, 
Diane,  I  wish  that  I  might  never  remember; 
I  wish  I  were  of  those  that  can  forget!' 

"With  that  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and 
commenced  to  sob  bitterly.  Diane  went  to  her 
and  took  her  in  her  arms  and  soothed  her  and 
comforted  her  and  stroked  her  bright  hair  with 
gentle,  sisterly  hands.  And,  even  as  Madame 
Nicolas  had  dreamed,  she  unclasped  her  own 
little  silver  cross  from  about  her  neck  and  gave 
it  to  Veronique.  And  when  she  had  done  so  she 
went  very  white  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  wept.  But  she  did  not  know  why 
she  wept,  for  she  was  really  glad  that  Veron 
ique  should  have  the  cross. 

"Then,  again,  as  in  the  dream,  Veronique 
refused  at  first  to  take  the  gift.  Diane  urged 
her  and  pleaded  with  her  to  do  so,  and  at  last 
Veronique  clasped  the  chain  at  her  neck  and 
peace  came  into  her  eyes  and  she  was  com 
forted. 

"That  night,  as  they  lay  side  by  side  in  the 


62  THE   PAGAN 


narrow  bed,  Veronique  said  in  a  whisper: 
'Diane,  are  you  asleep?' 

u  'No/  answered  Diane,  'I  was  praying.' 

"'Were  you  praying  for  me?'  asked  Ve 
ronique. 

"'For  you  —  and  for  myself,5"  answered 
Diane. 

"  'Tell  me  more  about  home,  Diane,'  whis 
pered  Veronique.  'Tell  me  about  the  shop.  Is 
the  image  of  Sainte  Veronique  still  unsold?  Tell 
me  about  mother.  Is  she — is  she  very  bitter 
against  me?  And  tell  me  about  the  cure  and 
Monsieur  Silvestre  and  the  church  and  the  Cafe 
du  Levant  and  the  Place  de  la  Fontaine.  Do 
the  sparrows  still  come  to  drink  at  the  water 
ing-trough  ?' 

"So  Diane  told  her  everything  she  wished 
to  know.  She  told  her  of  the  little  humdrum 
affairs  of  the  village ;  she  told  her  of  the  shop — 
that  the  image  of  Sainte  Veronique  still  stood 
in  the  corner  and  that  Madame  Nicolas,  re 
membering  how  fond  Veronique  had  been  of  it, 
had  refused  to  sell  it;  she  told  her  of  myself 
and  of  Monsieur  Silvestre  here;  and  then  she 
told  her  of  the  peace  and  the  calm  that  lie  over 
the  village  like  a  benediction.  And  when  she 
had  finished  Veronique  sighed  and  kissed  her 
and  said:  'To-morrow,  Diane,  I  will  go  back 
with  you  to  Evremont!'  Then  Veronique  lay 
back  and  slept  like  a  child.  But  Diane  slept 
very  little. 

"When  Veronique  awoke  the  next  morning 


CITY   OF   LIGHTS  63 

the  first  thing  she  did  was  to  feel  for  the  lit 
tle  cross  at  her  breast.  Her  fingers  found  it 
and  she  smiled.  Then,  while  she  bathed  and 
dressed,  she  sang — very  low  that  she  might  not 
disturb  Diane.  But  her  heart  was  singing 
loudly.  She  packed  the  few  trifles  that  she  had 
brought  with  her  when  she  left  Evremont  two 
years  ago — nothing  more — and  when  all  was 
ready  she  called  Diane. 

"Diane  awoke  and  the  first  thing  she  did  was 
to  feel  for  the  little  cross  at  her  breast.  Her 
fingers  found  it  not  and  she  sighed.  But  Ve- 
ronique  was  so  happy  that  the  sigh  passed  un 
observed. 

"  'Come/  said  Veronique,  'There  is  a  train, 
is  there  not,  at  half  past  eight?' 

"Diane  delayed  her  dressing  long  enough  to 
throw  her  arms  about  her  sister's  neck. 

"  'It  is,  then,  really  true,1  said  she;  and  she, 
too,  seemed  very  happy.  .  .  . 

"Well,  they  took  the  early  train.  I  had  fin 
ished  my  breakfast  and  was  in  the  Place,  taking 
a  breath  of  the  fragrant  morning  air  when  I 
saw  them  coming  up  the  street  from  the  station. 
I  ran  to  them  and  embraced  them  both.  Mon 
Dieu,  how  I  rejoiced  at  the  miracle,  and  I  re 
membered,  but  did  not  repeat,  the  parable  of 
the  sheep  that  strayed  from  the  fold.  Instead 
I  cried  aloud:  'God  is  good!'  I  could  have 
gone  on  my  knees  in  the  dust  of  the  street  and 
given  thanks " 

"It  would  have  attracted  attention,"   inter- 


64  THE    PAGAN 


rupted  Monsieur  Silvestre;  but  I  noticed  that 
more  than  once  he  had  furtively  rubbed  his 
sleeve  across  his  eyes,  and  so  I  judged  that  his 
irony  was  but  a  mask. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  cure,  "it  would  have  at 
tracted  attention  to  Veronique.  That  is  why 
I  did  not.  But  might  I,  in  this  connection,  re 
call  to  your  mind,  Monsieur  Silvestre,  what  you 
yourself  did  on  that  day?  You  took  every 
centime  that  was  paid  in  at  the  Cafe  du  Levant, 
and  when  you  thought  no  one  was  looking  you 
dropped  it  all  into  my  poor-box." 

"Bah!"  said  Monsieur  Silvestre.  "That 
indicates  nothing.  One  does  not  have  to  be 
religious  to  be  sorry  for  the  poor." 

The  cure  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Monsieur  Silvestre,"  he  said,  "in  spite  of 
yourself  you  are  one  of  the  best  Christians  in 
the  diocese." 

"Then  God  help  the  church !"  said  Monsieur 
Silvestre,  determined  to  have  the  last  word. 

"He   will,"    said   the    cure   with   conviction. 

"Now,  Monsieur  Craddock,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  me,  "I  now  come  to  the  end  of  the 
story.  That  was,  indeed,  a  day  of  rejoicing — 
the  day  that  brought  Veronique  back  to  us. 
She  seemed  to  fit  at  once  into  the  niche  that  we 
had  held  for  her  in  our  hearts  during  her  ab 
sence.  She  was  quiet — she  did  not  cringe,  she 
held  up  her  head;  but  one  could  see  how  grate 
ful  she  was  for  any  kindness." 


CITY   OF  LIGHTS  65 

"And  Madame  Nicolas?"  said  I — "Madame 
Nicolas,  I  presume,  was  very  happy." 

The  cure  shifted  in  his  chair  and  gazed  stead 
fastly  across  the  square,  far  above  the  tower  of 
his  church  into  the  clear  April  sky. 

"Madame  Nicolas,"  he  said  slowly,  "was 
very  happy  for  twenty-four  hours." 

"But — "  I  began,  and  then  stopped,  waiting 
in  silence  for  him  to  proceed. 

"On  the  very  night  of  her  return,  while  Ve- 
ronique  slept  smiling  beside  her,  Diane  arose, 
tossed  a  few  garments  into  a  little  cloth  valise, 
and  just  as  Veronique  had  done  before  her, 
stole  from  the  house  out  into  the  great  vast 
night.  The  city,  I  suppose,  had  got  into  her 
blood.  They  traced  her  as  far  as  Paris,  and 
then — they  lost  her.  They  have  never  heard 
from  her  since.  The  world  has  her  now,  and 
the  world,  alas !  is  not  gentle." 

Monsieur  Silvestre  cleared  his  throat  loudly 
and  turned  his  back. 

"Poor  Madame  Nicolas,"  he  said,  and  there 
was  a  break  in  his  voice. 

"Poor  Diane,"  said  the  cure. 

But  a  different  thought  came  to  me.  I 
thought  of  Veronique  and  the  burden  that  she 
bore  on  her  slender  shoulders,  and,  remember 
ing  the  tragedy  that  lay  dark  in  her  eyes,  I  said : 
"Poor  Veronique." 

Then,  for  a  space,  we  fell  silent,  each  busy 
with  his  own  thoughts.  The  shadow  of  the 
church  tower  stretched  its  blue  length  across 


66  THE   PAGAN 


the  square,  edging  ever  nearer  to  us  as  the  sun 
descended  the  sky.  The  village  was  dreamily 
still,  save  for  the  voices  of  boatmen  calling  to 
one  another  on  the  river. 

At  last  the  cure  stirred  in  his  chair.  I  think 
that  he  had  been  praying — for  one  in  peril  on 
uncharted  seas.  He  raised  his  head  slowly,  and 
his  eyes,  sweeping  the  west,  rested  on  the  gold 
cross  above  his  little  church.  Behind  the  cross 
lay  Paris  and  the  setting  sun. 


THE    BOTTOM    OF   THE    CUP 

I 

DIANE  NICOLAS,  having  run  away  from 
home  and  thus,  on  an  impulse,  upset  all  her  own 
and  other  people's  plans  for  her  future,  found 
that  Paris  was  not  quite  the  radiant  city  of  lights 
and  romance  which  one  brief  former  visit  had 
led  her  to  expect.  The  lights  were  there,  to  be 
sure,  and  doubtless  the  romance,  but  two  are 
necessary  to  achieve  romance  even  of  the  most 
tawdry  sort — and  Diane  was  alone.  It  is  not 
gay  to  be  alone  in  Paris,  especially  when  one  is 
young  and  a  girl,  and  has  been  bred  to  be  shy 
in  the  presence  of  strangers. 

Why,  then,  she  asked  herself,  had  she  come? 
Why  had  she  abandoned  Evremont-sur-Seine 
and  her  mother,  and  the  little  shop  where  her 
mother  sold  the  crucifixes  and  the  images  of 
saints,  and  above  all,  why  had  she  abandoned 
her  sister  Veronique,  whom  she  herself  had 
brought  back,  tear-stained  and  wretched,  from 
the  City  of  Lights? 

Diane,  I  repeat,  posed  these  questions  to  her 
self,  but  she  could  not  answer  them,  nor  can  I. 
Certainly  that  one  amusing,  rather  riotous  night 
in  Paris  had  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  her 
returning  to  live  it  again;  and  certainly  she  had 
been  well  aware  that  if  she  were  to  return  ever 

67 


68  THE   PAGAN 


to  Paris,  it  could  not  be  with  the  consent  of 
Madame  Nicolas.  Psychologists  and  students 
of  heredity  would  no  doubt  claim  that  her  action 
was  the  result  of  the  presence  in  her  character 
of  some  strain  of  wilfulness  and  passion  in 
herited  from  a  remote  rake  of  an  ancestor — an 
excellent  solution,  of  course,  but  pure  nonsense. 
Had  she  taken  the  veil  instead,  these  same 
authorities  would  just  as  convincingly  have 
credited  it  to  the  presence  of  a  strain  of  asceti 
cism  and  mysticism  inherited  from  an  early 
saint  or  martyr. 

In  any  case  she  had  run  away  from  every 
thing  that  she  loved  and  reverenced  to  come  to 
Paris,  of  which  she  knew  next  to  nothing.  She 
did  not  know  why  she  had  done  it,  and  she  knew 
many  reasons  why  she  should  not  have  done  it, 
and  yet  I  do  not  believe  that  at  first  she  regret 
ted  at  all  having  done  it.  That  makes  the  action 
almost  comprehensible.  You  see  what  I  mean? 
The  impulse  was  so  powerful  and  so  dominat 
ing  that  it  left  no  room  within  her  for  regrets. 
She  was  able  to  rise  above  her  disappointments. 
Also  Paris,  experienced  even  at  its  worst,  was 
a  change  from  Evremont — and  Diane  belonged 
to  the  restless  sex. 

On  the  occasion  of  her  previous  visit  to  Paris, 
she  and  Veronique  had  dined  with  some  young 
Frenchmen  at  the  Taverne  du  Pantheon.  There 
had  been  a  man — a  young  zouave  and  a  friend 
of  Veronique's  friend — who  had  danced  with 
her  three  times  and  who  had  assured  her  ar- 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        69 

dently  that  for  him  she  was  a  glimpse  of  Para 
dise.  She  remembered  with  some  confusion 
and  a  certain  unavowed  but  very  real  pleasure, 
how  closely  during  the  dances  he  had  held  his 
Paradise.  ...  So  for  three  days  in  succes 
sion,  at  the  end  of  her  search  for  employment, 
she  went  to  the  Taverne  du  Pantheon.  Be 
sides,  she  argued,  she  had  no  reason  to  go 
elsewhere. 

On  the  third  day  she  encountered  him.  It 
was  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  she  was  alone  at 
a  table  drinking  a  strop.  He  came  in  laughing 
with  two  friends,  stared  at  her  a  moment,  and, 
when  she  blushed  and  smiled,  went  over  to  her 
and  shook  her  cordially  by  both  hands. 

"But  it  is  the  little  sister  of  Veronique !"  he 
cried.  uThe  little  sister  from  the  country;  what 
does  she  do  here  alone,  the  little  sister  from  the 
country?" 

Diane  was  immensely  and  tremulously 
pleased. 

"She  drinks  a  strop"  she  explained,  with  a 
gesture. 

"Excellent,"  he  laughed,  "we  shall  all  drink 
together,  if  you  permit.  I  will  present  to  you 
my  two  friends — an  artist  called  Bruno  and  a 
would-be  architect  called  Ro-been-son.  He  is 
an  American — the  passionate-looking  one  with 
the  beard.  And  you — you  are  Mademoiselle 
Diane,  are  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "you  have  a  good  mem 
ory,  monsieur." 


70  THE   PAGAN 


"One  does  not  forget  Paradise,"  he  mur 
mured,  looking  her  in  the  eyes.  "As  for  me — 
my  name  is " 

"Your  name,"  she  interrupted,  "is  Monsieur 
Raoul." 

"I  thank  you  4a  thousand  times  for  deigning 
to  remember,"  he  said  magnificently,  with  a 
slight  smile  and  his  eyes  ever  on  hers.  Then  he 
motioned  to  Bruno  and  Robinson,  and  they 
made  places  for  themselves  around  the  table. 

Bruno  was  a  large  man  with  a  large  mus 
tache  and  a  fatherly  manner  toward  little 
women.  Robinson  was  a  gaunt,  long  American, 
who  spoke  French  slang  freely  with  a  good  ac 
cent  and  bad  grammar,  and  who  during  the 
six  months  that  he  had  studied  his  profession 
at  the  Beaux  Arts  had  grown  a  beard  and 
learned  to  neglect  his  nails  and  use  a  toothpick. 
Also  he  had  learned  to  tutoyer  every  one — 
especially  little  women. 

Over  the  glasses  the  conversation  became 
rapid  if  not  sparkling.  They  discovered  that 
Diane  haid  come  alone  to  Paris;  that  she  was 
seeking  an  opportunity  to  earn  money  in  some 
dressmaking  shop;  that  she  embroidered,  she 
had  been  told,  with  considerable  skill,  but  that 
thus  far  she  had  found  no  employment. 

"Why  not  pose  for  Bruno?"  suggested 
Robinson.  "He  is  doing  a  sort  of  imitation 
Chabas  at  present.  Green,  still  pool;  large 
tree;  young  girl  shivering  underneath." 

But  Robinson  received  no  encouragement; 


THE   BOTTOM    OF    THE    CUP         71 

for  Raoul  scowled  at  him  disapprovingly,  and 
Bruno  resented  hotly  the  imputation  that  he  was 
copying  Chabas. 

Diane,  not  being  an  authority  on  art,  did  not 
venture  to  intrude  in  the  discussion  that  ensued. 
Indeed  she  scarcely  understood  a  word  of  what 
they  said — no  great  loss  to  her,  for  she  would 
without  doubt  hear  it  all  repeated  as  often  as 
she  should  be  in  their  company. 

Raoul  being  a  good  deal  of  a  materialist, 
took  advantage  of  the  argument  to  whisper  an 
invitation  for  dinner  to  Diane.  Just  the  two 
of  them,  of  course.  She  neither  refused  nor 
accepted;  and  she  was  amused  and  a  little  per 
plexed  when  both  Robinson  and  Bruno  fol 
lowed  suit  at  short  intervals,  the  former  hold 
ing  out  a  truly  regal  entertainment  as  his  bait, 
and  the  latter  suggesting  a  very  modest  dinner 
over  which  they  should  discuss  her  future  and 
devise  means  for  securing  her  employment. 
This  he  offered  her  in  his  most  paternal  manner, 
and,  as  it  happened,  the  paternal  manner  won 
the  day.  Of  Robinson  and  of  Raoul  she  was 
afraid.  As  for  Bruno — why,  Bruno  was  al 
most  as  old  and  therefore  almost  as  harmless 
as  Monsieur  Silvestre  who  kept  the  inn  at  Evre- 
mont. 

And  so  she  dined  with  Bruno,  not  only  that 
night  but  several  nights  thereafter. 

And  he  pretended  to  find  work  for  her  in  the 
quarter,  but  never  somehow  succeeded.  When 
her  small  capital  was  exhausted  and  she  was 


72  THE   PAGAN 


starving,  he  fed  her.  And  gradually  her  grati 
tude  turned  to  affection  and,  as  he  had  patiently 
planned,  to  what  she  thought  was  love.  When 
that  moment  arrived  Bruno  pointed  out  to  her 
how  they  might  economize  if  she  gave  up  her 
room  and  came  to  live  with  him.  She  could  not 
deny  the  reasonableness  of  his  argument,  so  she 
packed  up  her  few  little  belongings  and  moved 
into  his  studio,  where  for  a  while  she  was  very 
happy. 

II 

BRUNO  was  always  kind  to  her,  and  there  is 
no  reason  to  doubt  that  he  loved  her  as  well  as 
he  knew  how.  She,  knowing  nothing  of  men, 
was  filled  with  a  great  respect  for  him  and  his 
work  and  his  friends  and,  above  all,  his  con 
versation.  He  talked  a  great  deal  of  things 
she  did  not  understand,  but  with  such  a  pro 
found  air  of  conviction  that  she  came  to  share 
his  belief  in  the  brilliancy  of  his  intellect.  This, 
of  course,  was  gratifying  to  him,  and  tended  to 
increase  his  affection  for  her.  All  males  like 
to  inspire  a  certain  amount  of  awe  in  their 
womenfolk,  and,  when  they  succeed  in  this,  they 
credit  the  woman  with  a  comprehending  nature 
and  she  rises  correspondingly  in  their  esteem. 

So  when  Bruno  discoursed  in  his  studio  to 
three  or  four  of  his  disciples,  Diane  sat  quietly 
in  a  corner,  all  eyes  and  ears — and,  moreover, 
very  pretty  eyes  and  ears,  Bruno  would  smile 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        73 

kindly  upon  her  if  she  ventured  to  intrude  a 
remark,  wave  his  pipe  and  answer  her  in  words 
noticeably  of  one  syllable.  Then  he  would 
murmur  half  aloud,  "Elle  est  gentille"  or  "Est- 
ce  qiiy  elle  est  mignonne!"  and  resume  his 
harangue.  She  was  referred  to  constantly  both 
by  him  and  by  his  friends  as  "la  petite,"  and  his 
friends  were  very  polite  to  her  and  in  no  way 
surprised  at  her  presence  in  the  studio.  Later 
she  suspected  from  this  that  she  had  had  pre 
decessors,  but  later  she  asked  herself  who  had 
not? 

For  the  time  being  her  happiness  depended 
entirely  on  Bruno's  affection — on  its  manifesta 
tion  and  on  its  prospect  of  enduring.  Quite 
naturally,  no  doubt,  once  she  had  committed 
herself,  the  thought  of  another  man  never  en 
tered  her  mind.  And,  so  firm  was  her  faith 
in  Bruno  that  the  possibility  of  his  leaving  her 
seemed  out  of  the  question.  They  were  not 
married — that,  of  course,  was  very  regrettable 
— but  they  loved  each  other  and  would  grow 
old  together  and  never  separate.  That,  to  her, 
was  a  certainty.  She  often  made  plans  for  their 
old  age,  so  sure  was  she  that  they  would  reach 
it  together — plans  that  comprised  children  and 
a  possible  marriage  to  legitimize  them.  In 
cluded  among  these  plans  was  a  triumphant  re 
turn  with  her  husband  to  Evremont  and  to  her 
mother  and  her  sister.  There  would  be  Mon 
sieur  le  cure  and  Monsieur  Silvestre,  the  inn 
keeper,  rushing  over  to  Madame  Nicolas's  shop 


74  THE   PAGAN 


to  greet  her,  and  Monsieur  le  cure  would  bap 
tize  the  children  in  the  little  church  on  the 
square.  Probably  there  would  be  three  chil 
dren.  Two  would  be  old  enough  to  walk,  and 
the  baby  she  would  carry  in  her  arms.  It  would 
be  summer,  so  she  would  be  dressed  in  white 
with  a  crimson  belt  at  her  waist  and  a  broad 
straw  hat  with  roses  in  it.  Bruno,  who,  of 
course,  would  receive  a  tremendous  welcome, 
would  lay  down  the  artistic  law  of  an  evening 
to  the  wide-eyed  cure  and  Monsieur  Silvestre, 
and  he  would  paint  charming  landscapes  of  the 
clean  little  red  and  white  village  and  of  the 
murmuring  Seine  with  the  poplars  swaying  in 
line  beside  it.  These,  after  they  had  been  ex 
hibited  at  the  Salon,  he  would  doubtless  sell 
for  fabulous  sums  to  rich  Americans.  .  .  . 
She  was  young,  you  see,  and  a  dreamer  of 
dreams,  which  made  her  less  able  to  support 
the  blow  that  reality  was  to  deal  to  her.  It 
seems  strange  (and  yet  such  strange  things 
happen  continually)  that  she  who  had  seen  her 
sister  Veronique  disillusioned  should  have  had 
no  fears  for  herself. 

Meanwhile  her  menage  with  Bruno  had  not 
gained  her  the  friendship  either  of  Raoul  or  of 
Robinson,  both  of  whom  considered  themselves 
to  have  been  shabbily  treated.  Raoul  thought 
she  should  have  been  his  by  right  of  discovery, 
and  Robinson  was  unpleasantly  surprised  that 
she  should  have  scorned  him  in  spite  of  his 
offers  of  expensive  entertainment. 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP         75 

Now  it  was  unfortunate  that  at  the  time  that 
Bruno  offered  Diane  a  share  in  his  possessions 
and  in  his  life  he  had  been  assiduously  court 
ing  (always  in  his  paternal  manner)  another. 
It  was  equally  unfortunate  that  Bruno,  who  de 
tested  a  row,  had  not  had  the  courage  to  inform 
this  other  that  her  seat  on  the  throne  beside 
him  had  been  very  adequately  filled. 

The  girl  whom  Diane  had  supplanted  was 
called  Madeleine  Brissonet,  and  was  known  by 
those  who  knew  her  as  Madelon.  Living  with 
her  father  at  St.  Cloud,  she  was  not  either  by 
birth  or  by  residence  of  the  quarter;  but  she 
came  daily  to  draw  in  an  atelier  off  the  Boule 
vard  du  Montparnasse.  There  Bruno  had  met 
her  and  had  condescended  to  criticise  her  work, 
which  was  deplorable.  He  had  assured  her, 
however,  that  she  showed  promise,  and  had 
given  her  several  dinners  at  the  Closerie  des 
Lilas,  during  which  he  had  wooed  her  with  his 
eloquence  and  a  rather  heavy  Burgundy.  Ma 
delon,  a  little  flaxen-haired  hypocrite,  had 
played  him  like  a  fish  until  she  had  reduced  him 
to  a  condition  where  she  had  but  to  reach  for  the 
landing  net.  Very  demure  and  saint-like  she 
was,  and  as  hard  as  nails.  Accordingly,  men 
admired  her,  and  the  women  students  at  the 
atelier  disliked  her  intensely  and  consoled  them 
selves  by  telling  one  another  that  she  was  knock- 
kneed  (which  was  not  true)  and  that,  of  course, 
she  dyed  her  hair.  The  latter  accusation  she 
admitted,  offering  them  the  recipe. 


76  THE   PAGAN 


It  is  obvious,  then,  that  Raoul,  Robinson,  and 
Madelon  were  a  formidable  trio,  each  with  a 
spoke  ready  to  thrust  into  the  wheel  of  Diane's 
happiness.  That  the  three  of  them  met  one 
afternoon  at  Lavenue's  was  not,  however,  the 
result  of  a  conspiracy — it  was  an  event  that 
sooner  or  later  was  bound  to  occur.  Poor 
Bruno  would  have  trembled  had  he  seen  their 
three  heads  together  over  the  foaming  bocks. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  her,  Madelon  ?"  Robin 
son  began  maliciously. 

"Whom?"  asked  Madelon. 

"The  little  friend  of  Bruno,"  said  Robinson. 
"She  is  quite  lovely — young,  slim,  graceful, 
adorable  and,  I  believe,  adoring.  Old  Bruno 
is  most  fortunate.  He  appears  to  know  it  and 
is  as  happy  as  a  cat  before  the  fire.  Have  you 
met  him  recently  and  noted  his  rejuvenation?" 

"You  are  always  disagreeable,"  said  Made- 
Ion — "even  when  you  do  not  try  to  be.  So  why, 
I  wonder,  do  you  try?" 

Robinson  smiled  like  a  man  of  the  world  and 
blew  out  a  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke. 

"I  am  trying  to  arouse  you,"  he  said  lan 
guidly.  "I  am  bored  and  I  should  like  to  see 
a  little  action  in  the  quarter.  Life  is  dull,  isn't 
it,  Raoul?" 

"Life  is  very  dull,"  agreed  the  zouave.  "I 
could  have  loved  that  girl.  Indeed,  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  did  not  and  do  not.  What  eyes — 
like  those  of  a  saint  giving  in  to  temptation! 
I  wish  I  had  married  her." 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP         77 

"Imbecile,"  observed  Madelon  briefly,  and 
sipped  her  beer. 

Raoul  smiled  at  her  a  shade  pityingly. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  he  said.  "You 
have  not  seen  her." 

"But  yes,  I  have  seen  her,"  she  retorted  im 
patiently.  "And  what  then?  I  saw  a  thin  lit 
tle  provincial  in  an  abominable  gown  and  hat 
of  the  early  Fallieres  period.  Do  you  think  I 
allow  myself  to  be  perturbed  by  such  a  com 
petitor.  Bruno  will  tire  of  her  in  a  week,  and  if 
he  does  not.  .  .  .  Order  me  another  bock, 
Robinson,  you  who  are  rich." 

"It  is  just  as  well  that  you  are  not  jealous," 
said  Robinson,  giving  the  order — "it  is  just  as 
well  that  you  are  not  jealous,  because  I  have 
never  before  seen  a  menage  that  promised  to  be 
so  enduring.  I  understand  that  Bruno  intends 
to  marry  her  shortly.  That,  at  least,  would 
be  a  marriage  made  in  heaven." 

Robinson  leant  back  in  his  chair  to  witness 
the  effect  of  this,  his  supreme  blow.  Machia- 
velli  would,  I  think,  have  been  pleased  with 
Robinson. 

That  Madelon  was  perturbed  was  instantly 
apparent  to  one  who  knew  her.  Her  childish 
little  mouth  lost  something  of  its  childishness, 
the  eyelids  narrowed  over  her  large  blue  eyes, 
and  suddenly  she  ceased  to  be  pretty.  Framed 
by  her  coy  yellow  curls,  her  face  seemed  for 
an  instant  almost  old.  .  .  .  She  pretended 
to  be  busy  with  a  cigarette. 


78  THE   PAGAN 


"Who  told  you  about  the  marriage?"  she 
asked  at  length — "or  are  you  lying?" 

His  point  gained,  Robinson  could  afford  to 
feign  indifference. 

"Naturally,"  he  said  lazily,  "I  am  lying.  I 
always  lie.  But  if  you  don't  believe  me,  my 
dear  Madelon,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  your 
finding  out  for  yourself." 

Raoul,  who  was  hampered  by  certain  decent 
sentiments,  interposed. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "leave  her  alone.  It  is 
not  Diane's  fault  that  she  made  us  miserable, 
and  at  least  she  has  made  old  Bruno  happy." 

Meant  well,  it  was  nevertheless  a  most  un 
fortunate  speech  and  put  Madelon  into  a  rage 
that  she  made  no  attempt  to  conceal. 

"Happy!"  she  said,  "that  little  fool  from  the 
country  that  dresses  herself  like  a  chambermaid 
on  Sunday — that  ignorant  little  toy  doll  make 
Bruno  happy!  Bah!  Je  m'en  fche  d'elle  com- 
me  de  ma  chemise!" 

She  went  on  to  say  even  more — phrases,  I 
fear,  that  she  had  not  learned  from  the  good 
sisters  in  the  convent.  Robinson  listened  in 
silent  approval. 

"You  do  not  understand  human  nature, 
Madelon,"  he  interposed  at  length.  "This  lit 
tle  Diane  does  not  dress  expensively  nor  does 
she  act  expensively.  She  is  simple  and  natural 
in  clothes  and  actions.  That  is  why  Bruno  will 
marry  her.  The  contrast,  .  ,  ," 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        79 

"The  contrast  with  me,  I  suppose,"  sneered 
Madelon. 

"Precisely.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

Madelon  clutched  tardily  at  her  lost  dignity. 

"I  will  beckon  with  my  finger,"  she  said 
grandly,  "and  Bruno  will  come." 

"Very  well,"  said  Robinson.  "Beckon  and 
good  luck." 

Ill 

MADELON  lost  no  time  in  beckoning  with  her 
finger.  Arming  herself  with  a  "Manual  for  the 
Writing  of  Letters  of  Passion,"  which  she  pro 
cured  from  a  book-stall  on  the  quai,  she  retired 
to  a  remote  table  in  a  cafe  and  set  to  work.  The 
result  was  the  following  masterpiece,  of  which 
the  phrases  were  culled  from  the  book,  but  of 
which  the  many  and  elaborately  formed  capital 
letters  were  her  own. 

"Mv  LOVE: 

"It  is  a  long  time  that  one  has  not  seen  you. 
Is  it  that  you  have  tired  of  me  so  soon — of  me 
whom  you  swore  to  Love  for  always  ?  I  cannot 
believe  it,  and  yet  I  am  frightened  at  your  Cool 
ness.  During  these  three  weeks  I  have  waited 
with  Patience  for  a  word  from  you,  and  my 
Heart  is  broken  and  torn  with  a  Supreme  An 
guish.  What  have  I  done  to  you  that  you  scorn 
the  Bleeding  Heart  I  have  placed  in  your 


80  THE   PAGAN 


hands?  Am  I  then  nothing  to  you  but  a  Toy 
which  you  have  broken  and  thrown  aside? 
One  time  you  called  me  Beautiful  and  all  that 
was  adorable.  Is  that  time  so  long  ago  that 
you  have  forgotten,  or  is  it  that  I  have  ceased 
to  be  Beautiful  and  adorable?  Come  to  me 
once  more  that  I  may  prove  to  you  how  Beauti 
ful  and  adorable  I  yet  can  be.  Your  Madelon 
who  forgets  not." 

And  then  she  added,  of  course,  a  postscript 
— and  this  without  the  aid  of  her  manual. 

"Meet  me  Thursday  at  five  at  the  Musee 
du  Luxembourg.  If  not,  I  shall  kill  you, 
dirty  pig  I" 

She  reread  the  letter  with  deep  satisfaction. 
It  seemed  to  combine  passion  and  dignity,  and 
the  postscript  robbed  it  of  a  certain  humility 
which  to  her  mind  had  rather  marred  the  letter 
from  the  manual. 

"Now,"  she  said,  when  she  had  stamped  and 
mailed  it — unow,  we  shall  see." 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  saw  nothing  re 
sultant  for  several  days;  for  during  those  days 
Diane  had  been  guilty  of  a  dishonorable  act: 
she  had  opened  the  letter  and  read  it  before  it 
reached  the  hands  of  Bruno.  And  this,  again, 
had  been  the  result  of  Robinson's  Machiavel 
lian  touch. 

The  day  after  Robinson  had  sown  the  seed 
of  jealousy  in  Madelon's  fertile  brain,  he  had 
decided  that  Diane  ought  to  be  aroused  to  her 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        81 

danger,  otherwise  the  combat  would  be  too  one 
sided  and  Madelon  might  well  steal  Bruno  away 
without  a  struggle.  For  complete  vengeance 
a  struggle  surely  was  necessary — a  three-cor 
nered  struggle  in  which  each  of  the  combatants 
should  be  rendered  thoroughly  miserable.  Such 
men  as  Robinson  exist,  but  as  a  rule  they  are 
not  allowed  to  reach  their  prime. 

Accordingly,  in  order  that  Diane  might  have 
her  fair  portion  of  misery,  Robinson  presented 
himself  at  the  studio  at  an  hour  when  he  knew 
Bruno  was  away.  Diane  received  him,  clad  in 
a  long  apron.  She  was  preparing  to  cook  the 
dinner  and  had  just  finished  polishing  the  floor. 

"The  perfect  housewife,"  said  Robinson, 
eying  her  with  open  admiration.  "Spotlessly 
neat,  cool  in  spite  of  the  heat,  and  no  trace  of 
that  unbecoming  flush  so  often  bred  of  the  kit 
chen  stove.  In  you  Bruno  has  a  jewel.  I  can 
but  hope  that  he  knows  it." 

"Come  in,"  answered  Diane,  "and  sit  down. 
Or,  no — help  me  rather  with  the  coals,  if  you 
will  be  so  kind." 

"I  can  stay  only  an  instant,"  declared  Robin 
son  quickly,  for  he  had  no  desire  to  help  with 
the  coals.  "Postpone  the  dinner  preparation 
for  five  minutes,  my  dear,  as  I  have  something 
of  great  importance  to  tell  you." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "let  me  guess!  It  is 
that  you  have  been  admitted  to  the  Beaux- 
Arts?" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling,  watching  her. 


82  THE   PAGAN 


"No;  not  so  cataclysmic  as  that." 

She  pondered  and  finally  said  tentatively: 
"You  have  perhaps  bought  that  pipe  you  so 
admire  in  the  shop  of  the  rue  de  la  Paix?" 

Still  he  shook  his  head. 

"More  epoch-making  than  that." 

"I  know,  then,"  she  cried —  "it  is  that  you  are 
to  be  married?" 

He  ceased  smiling  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
arm. 

"No,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  that  you  are  in 
danger  of  being  divorced." 

The  shot  was  too  abrupt  for  success.  She 
did  not  at  once  grasp  his  meaning,  and  so  she 
looked  at  him  to  ascertain  whether  or  not  he 
was  joking.  One  never  knew  with  that  Robin 
son.  But  no,  he  was  not  joking.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  was  very  grave.  Then,  slowly,  the 
color  left  her  face,  and  she  turned  her  head 
away  and  pretended  to  busy  herself  with  the 
kettle.  He  watched  her  without  pity,  while  she 
fumbled  about  aimlessly  and  blindly,  and  he  did 
not  relent  when  she  secretly  put  the  sleeve  of 
her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  whispered  at 
length.  "Tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean  that  Bruno  is  meeting  Madelon  al 
most  every  day,  and  that  soon  he  will  leave  you 
for  her." 

"Who— who  is  Madelon?" 

It  was  Robinson's  turn  to  be  astonished.  It 
had  not  occurred  to  him  that  she  knew  nothing 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        83 

of  the  existence  of  Madelon.  Every  one  else 
in  the  quarter  knew  of  Madelon — every  one 
at  least  who  knew  Bruno. 

"Come,"  he  said  harshly,  "do  not  pretend 
ignorance.  Madelon  is — was — well,  Madelon 
will  soon  be  cooking  old  Bruno's  dinner,  just 
as  you  are  doing  now — only  better  than  you  are 
doing  now,  for  you  appear  to  be  doing  it  very 
badly." 

"Ah,"  said  Diane,  "I  understand  what  you 
mean.  I  detest  you  1" 

"That,  I  suppose,"  murmured  Robinson, 
"would  undoubtedly  follow.  But  a  kind  action 
is  its  own  reward,  so  I  ask  for  nothing  more. 
I  can  but  urge  you  to  keep  your  beautiful  eyes 
open — his  correspondence,  for  example.  Watch 
it  closely.  Open  it,  if  it  appears  suspicious.  It 
is  often  done,  and  a  woman  in  your  position 
should  and  must  defend  herself.  Men  are 
brutes — untrustworthy  brutes.  I  am  one,  my 
self." 

"You,"  cried  Diane — "you !  You  are  shame 
ful,  you  are  ignoble  !  Go  away — you  have  made 
me  miserable." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Robinson,  "and  I  go. 
Only  remember — watch  the  letters  he  receives, 
and  if  some  day  you  should  need  the  air,  fol 
low  Bruno  on  one  of  his  walks.  You  will  doubt 
less  find  it  interesting  and — er — illuminating. 
Dear  madame,  I  say  to  you  adieu." 

His  work  done,  he  left  her.  Magnificent 
Robinson ! 


84  THE   PAGAN 


When  he  had  gone,  she  threw  herself  on  her 
bed  and  cried,  and  for  the  first  time  wished 
that  she  was  back  home  at  Evremont-sur-Seine. 
And  then,  gradually,  she  ceased  to  cry,  and 
since  she  was  very  human,  her  dismay  turned 
to  anger.  As  I  have  said,  there  was  always  the 
trace  of  a  devil  lying  latent  in  Diane;  and  if 
any  woman  has  within  her  a  latent  devil  it  can 
most  easily  be  aroused  by  the  whip  of  jealousy. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  at  this  moment  the 
elderly  bearded  lady  who  served  as  concierge 
panted  up  the  stairs  bearing  Madelon's  letter 
to  Bruno. 

Diane  took  the  letter,  studied  the  writing  on 
the  envelope,  turned  a  little  white  and  breath 
less,  and  went  slowly  to  the  kitchen  where  the 
kettle  was  steaming  on  the  stove.  The  kettle, 
the  steam,  the  insecurely  sealed  envelope,  and 
a  jealous  devil  within  her — the  combination  tri 
umphed  and  the  angels  wept. 

She  read  Madelon's  literary  effort  grimly 
and  scornfully,  and  as  Madelon  had  been  con 
temptuous  of  her,  so  now  she  became  contempt 
uous  of  Madelon.  An  illiterate  little  creature 
who  culled  her  phrases  obviously  from  a  Man 
ual  ! — all  except  the  postscript,  of  course,  which 
might  have  been  the  work  of  the  daughter  of  a 
cab-driver. 

Surely  Bruno,  the  great  artist,  the  intellect 
ual,  the  wise  man  of  his  circle,  could  not  be 
lured  by  such  a  one.  Her  reasoning,  of  course, 
was  fallacious,  for  she  did  not  understand  the 


THE    BOTTOM    OF    THE    CUP         85 

inconsistencies  of  men,  and  moreover,  she 
sadly  overestimated  the  refinement  of  Bruno's 
nature.  But  an  older,  more  sophisticated 
woman  might  have  well  made  the  same  mis 
take,  for  few  women  can  see  any  virtue  in  their 
rivals. 

Before  resealing  the  letter,  she  hesitated. 
Should  she  destroy  it,  should  she  deliver  it  to 
Bruno  apparently  intact  and  unread,  or  should 
she  frankly  confront  him  with  it?  Determin 
ing  on  a  compromise,  she  took  pen  and  ink  and, 
in  carefully  executed  block  letters  added  one 
more  postscript: — "J'y  suis,  j'y  reste"  Then 
she  resealed  the  envelope,  placed  it  on  Bruno's 
desk  and  hastened  to  cook  the  dinner. 


IV 

THE  two  days  that  intervened  between  the 
receipt  of  Madelon's  letter  and  the  Thursday 
for  which  had  been  set  the  rendezvous  with 
Bruno,  were  for  Diane  days  of  indecision,  of 
despair,  and  of  wrath. 

Bruno's  reception  of  the  letter  had  been  a 
trying  moment.  He  had  glanced  at  the  address 
and  had  retired  immediately  to  the  bedroom  to 
read  the  contents  unseen  and  undisturbed.  On 
emerging  from  this  seclusion,  he  had  cast  her 
a  sharp,  inquisitorial  glance  from  under  his  deep 
brows.  She  had  simulated  unconcern  and  noth- 


86  THE   PAGAN 


ing  had  been  said;  but  the  postscript  must  have 
intrigued  him — must  have  unsettled  him  a  lit 
tle.  Still,  there  was  no  means  by  which  he  could 
be  certain  that  it  was  Diane  who  had  added  the 
challenging  phrase :  "J'y  suis,  j'y  reste"  The 
fact  that  it  applied  in  no  way  to  Madelon's 
position  would  not  have  prevented  that  bor 
rower  of  phrases  from  having  appended  it  as 
a  gem  of  purely  rhetorical  value.  So  Bruno, 
wisely,  or  unwisely,  had  decided  that  the  less 
said  the  better.  He,  at  any  rate,  would  not 
broach  the  subject. 

Thursday,  at  five,  at  the  Musee  du  Luxem 
bourg.  Madelon  was  there,  of  course,  and 
Bruno,  looking  furtively  behind  him,  arrived 
at  five  minutes  past  the  hour.  And  Diane, 
hating  herself  for  spying,  but  hating  Madelon 
more,  saw  them  meet.  She  saw  Madelon  throw 
her  arms  around  Bruno's  neck  and  kiss  him;  and 
then  she  went  home,  hating  not  only  herself  but 
all  the  world. 

This  time  there  were  no  tears.  There  was, 
rather,  a  blinding  rage,  a  hot  rage  that  flamed 
in  her  cheeks  and  that  burned  her  tears  dry.  A 
man  in  her  mood  would  probably  have  com 
mitted  murder  and  been  acquitted,  but  she,  be 
ing  a  woman,  planned  a  more  subtle  revenge. 

The  information  she  needed  was  easily  ob 
tained.  Madelon  Brissonet  lived  with  her 
father  at  St.  Cloud  and  came  daily  to  an  atelier 
in  the  quarter,  supposedly  to  paint.  She  was 
seemingly  a  respectable  little  bourgeoise,  daugh- 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        87 

ter  of  a  respectable  old  bourgeois — a  govern 
ment  employee.  Now,  no  one  in  France  is  so 
eminently  respectable  as  a  government  em 
ployee,  especially  one  who  holds  a  minor  posi 
tion,  and  no  one  is  so  proud  and  so  careful  of 
his  respectability.  Employment  by  the  govern 
ment  is  for  the  honest  bourgeoise  the  ambition 
of  his  youth,  the  glory  of  his  prime,  and  the 
solace  of  his  age. 

Diane,  consulting  a  Bottin  in  the  nearest  to 
bacco-shop,  read: 

"Brissonet,  Adolphe — Clerk  in  the  Bureau 
des  P.  T.  T.,  8  bis  rue  Legrand,  St.  Cloud." 

That  made  it  very  simple.  She  would  go 
to  St.  Cloud  and  call  upon  Monsieur  Adolphe 
Brissonet,  and  suggest  that  his  daughter,  Made- 
Ion,  hie  herself  to  a  convent  for  her  soul's  sake. 
True,  Monsieur  Brissonet  would  doubtless  be 
heartbroken  at  the  revelation  she  would  make, 
but — well,  other  hearts  were  being  broken  with 
impunity,  and  Diane  was  in  a  rage.  For  the 
time  being  hell  had  no  fury  like  unto  her. 

Late  on  the  following  afternoon  she  dressed 
herself  in  her  Sunday  clothes — black  with  a 
white  lace  collar — and  boarded  a  train  for  St. 
Cloud.  Alighting  at  the  square  by  the  Pavilion 
Bleu,  she  inquired  the  direction  of  the  rue  Le 
grand,  and  was  informed  that  it  was  ten  min 
utes  on  foot,  up  the  hill  to  the  right. 

"It  is  wet  and  the  road  is  muddy,"  added  the 
gallant  sergent  de  viHe,  "but  madame  will  find 
taxis  opposite  the  Pavilion." 


88  THE   PAGAN 


"Thank  you,"  she  answered,  "but  I  prefer 
to  walk." 

The  preference  was  pretense,  for  her  purse 
contained  only  a  franc  and  some  coppers. 

The  rue  Legrand  was  a  neat  enough  little 
street  that  ran  at  an  acute  angle  from  the  main 
road  along  the  side  of  the  hill.  It  was  lined 
with  detached  villas,  fenced  off  carefully  from 
each  other  and  from  the  street  by  stone  walls 
and  by  iron  grilled  gates,  on  each  of  which  hung 
a  plaque  bearing  the  grandiose  name  of  the  villa 
to  which  it  gave  access.  Number  8  bis  was 
called  Villa  Marie  Antoinette — a  strange  name 
for  the  habitation  of  an  employee  of  the  Third 
Republic.  Doubtless  Monsieur  Brissonet  had 
purchased  the  name-plate  along  with  the  villa 
and  had  been  too  thrifty  to  buy  a  new  one. 

Diane  rang  the  bell  beside  the  iron  gate.  She 
was  a  little  frightened  and  her  heart  was  beat 
ing  overfast,  but  rage  had  not  left  it.  More 
over,  once  her  mind  was  made  up  to  a  project, 
it  was  of  her  nature  to  see  it  through.  Witness 
the  fact  that  she  had  run  away  from  home — 
surely  a  far  more  daring  adventure  than  this. 

After  an  interval,  a  thin,  neat  old  woman 
came  down  the  gravel  path  to  admit  her. 

"I  desire  to  see  Monsieur  Brissonet,"  said 
Diane  firmly — "on  a  most  urgent  matter." 

"If  mademoiselle  will  enter,"  replied  the  neat 
old  woman. 

She  stepped  aside  to  let  Diane  through  the 
gate,  and  then  preceded  her  up  the  walk  be- 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        89 

tween  the  closely  clipped  hedges.  When  they 
reached  the  house — it  was  at  no  great  distance 
— the  neat  old  woman  said:  "If  mademoiselle 
will  be  so  kind  as  to  give  her  name,  I  will  inform 
monsieur.  He  is  in  the  garden  at  the  back, 
watering  the  geraniums." 

"Say  that  it  is  Mademoiselle  Nicolas.  I — I 
know  his  daughter." 

Instantly  the  neat  old  woman's  face  bright 
ened,  and  she  broke  into  a  kindly  smile. 

"A  friend  of  Mademoiselle  Madeleine,"  she 
said.  "Monsieur  will  be  so  rejoiced  to  greet 
you." 

Diane  answered  nothing. 

They  traversed  a  narrow  hallway  which  led 
through  the  house  to  the  garden  in  the  rear. 
It  was  a  symmetrical  little  garden  laid  out  with 
precision  on  geometrical  lines.  A  bed  of  gera 
niums  on  one  side  balanced  a  bed  of  geraniums 
on  the  other.  A  path  ran  down  the  middle  and, 
exactly  in  the  centre  of  the  garden,  made  a 
circle  around  a  small  pool  of  water  where 
floated  six  lily-pads,  three  on  a  side.  Admirers 
of  the  pool  were  supposedly  accommodated  by 
six  green  iron  chairs,  also  three  on  a  side.  At 
the  far  end  of  the  garden,  in  the  corners  of  the 
wall,  Monsieur  Brissonet  had  planted  two  plum- 
trees,  one  of  which  was  not  doing  well  and 
caused  him  much  anxiety.  It  probably  caused 
him  more  anxiety  than  anything  else  in  his  life 
at  that  time.  The  year  before,  of  course,  had 
been  different:  he  had  been  greatly  upset  and 


90  THE  PAGAN 


very  much  excited,  for  it  was  that  year  that  he 
had  determined  to  have  new  tiles  put  on  the 
coping  of  the  garden-wall.  True,  the  new  tiles 
were  not  yet  in  place,  but  at  least  the  decision 
had  been  made.  That  and  the  death  of  the  cat 
had  made  it  a  very  feverish  year. 

When  Diane  stepped  into  the  garden  Mon 
sieur  Brissonet  was,  as  the  neat  old  woman  had 
foreseen,  watering  the  geraniums.  His  back 
was  turned  at  the  moment,  so  all  that  Diane 
could  see  of  him  was  a  thin  stooping  figure  in 
a  brown  linen  duster  and  a  broad-brimmed, 
black  felt  hat 

"Monsieur!"  called  the  neat  old  woman 
shrilly,  and  obtaining  no  response,  again : 
"Monsieur!  There  is  a  lady!" 

The  stooping  figure  straightened  up  and 
turned  inquiringly,  and  then  Monsieur  Bris 
sonet,  rather  reluctant  to  leave  his  task  un 
finished,  advanced  toward  Diane. 

"It  is  Mam'selle  Nicolas,  a  friend  of 
Mam'selle  Madeleine,"  explained  the  neat  old 
woman. 

Monsieur  Brissonet  immediately  quickened 
his  pace  and  came  to  Diane,  his  face  beaming, 
his  two  hands  outstretched.  He  was  short  and 
slight,  and  agile  as  a  restless  bird.  He  had  a 
round  red  face  and  a  smart  white  mustache, 
and,  when  he  removed  his  hat,  Diane  saw  that 
he  was  quite  bald  save  for  a  scant  semicircle  of 
white  hair  like  a  beard  put  on  the  back  of  his 
neck.  His  gray  eyes  sparkled  alertly  behind  a 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        91 

pair  of  spectacles.  In  short,  he  appeared  to  be 
a  very  kindly  old  man. 

"I  come  Alphonsine,"  he  cried.  "I  cornel" 
And  come  he  did,  so  effusively  that  Diane 
feared  he  was  about  to  embrace  her.  Instead 
he  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  to  a  bench  near 
a  round  table. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "I  am  greatly 
honored.  Any  friend  of  my  Madeleine  is  wel 
come  to  whatever  I  have.  Give  yourself  the 
trouble  to  sit  here  and  Alphonsine  will  bring 
us  some  cakes  and  a  glass  of  wine.  Alphon 
sine,  the  old  port,  and  whatever  cakes  there 
are.  We  will  sit  here  where  we  can  see  the 
garden,  and  mademoiselle  and  I  will  talk  a  lit 
tle  and  become  acquainted  while  we  wait  for 
the  return  of  Madeleine." 

Alphonsine,  greatly  excited,  hurried  off  to 
obey. 

"But,  monsieur — "  began  Diane,  and 
stopped. 

"I  expect  Madeleine  at  any  moment,"  he 
pursued  when  he  noticed  her  hesitation.  "Some 
times  she  is  detained  at  the  atelier  with  her 
painting-lessons.  But  I  do  not  complain.  She 
has  talent — undoubted  talent — all  her  profes 
sors  say  so.  And  I  think  it  is  good  to  encourage 
it.  And  she  loves  the  work,  does  she  not? 
Ah,  that  must  be  wonderful — so  wonderful — 
to  be  an  artist  and  to  have  the  means  to  study. 
But  you,  yourself,  mademoiselle,  doubtless  you 
are  also  an  artist.  Tell  me  about  yourself  and 


92  THE   PAGAN 


your  work — Madeleine  tells  me  so  little.  She 
is  very  modest  and  will  not  talk.  But  I  know 
she  is  doing  well — perhaps  you  will  tell  me  all 
about  it.  You  see,  I  am  so  far  away  from 
everything  here  at  St.  Cloud,  and  all  day  long 
I  sit  at  my  desk,  so  that  I  never,  except  on  Sun 
days,  have  an  occasion  to  go  down  to  the  city. 
But  mine  is  good  work,  I  think.  It  is  steady 
work  and  it  is  for  the  country  and  the  republic. 
Ah,  yes,  for  the  republic!  I  served  under  the 
empire  when  I  was  a  lad — but  I  am  a  staunch 
republican.  The  republic  has  given  me  my 
little  house  and  my  garden  and  my  daily  bread, 
and  I  am  grateful  to  it,  for  what  else  does  a 
man  desire?  And  more,  it  has  given  me  the 
ability  to  set  aside  a  little  money  for  Madeleine. 
But  the  empire — "  he  stopped  and  smiled  wist 
fully — "the  empire  gave  me  only  a  bullet  in  my 
arm  and  this  to  wear  in  my  buttonhole." 

He  drew  back  the  collar  of  his  linen  duster 
and  pointed  proudly  to  a  red  ribbon  in  the  lapel 
of  his  coat. 

"The  Legion!"  murmured  Diane. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "And  yet  we  surrendered 
to  them.  I  wish  we  had  it  to  do  over  again  with 
the  First  Napoleon  to  lead  us.  It  would  have 
been  different — very  different.  .  .  .  But  I 
am  talking  about  myself,  and  that  I  can  do  any 
time  to  the  old  Alphonsine.  It  is  you  who 
should  talk  and  I  who  should  listen.  Tell  me, 
now,  do  you  study  in  the  same  atelier  with  my 
Madeleine?" 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        93 

"There  is  a  mistake,  monsieur,"  stammered 
Diane.  And  then  she  steeled  herself  and  con 
tinued: 

"I  do  not  work  in  the  atelier  with  Madeleine. 
I  am  not  a  painter." 

"Ahl"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Brissonet,  "a 
sculptor,  of  course.  What  a  wonderful  art! 
Three  dimensions  instead  of  two.  I  have  a 
friend  here  in  St.  Cloud  who  is  a  sculptor,  so 
you  perceive  I  am  well  acquainted  with  your 
profession.  He  has  done  some  excellent  work 
at  Pere-Lachaise.  Urns  and  wreaths  and 
torches  and  even,  in  one  instance,  the  complete 
figure  of  an  angel  bearing  a  wreath  of  laurel. 
That  was  for  the  grave  of  a  soldier — a  poor 
old  fellow  who  died  four  years  ago  and  left 
nothing  but  a  rusty  sword  and  a  dented  cuirass. 
He  had  been  in  the  cavalry  under  MacMahon. 
My  friend  the  sculptor  did  the  monument  and 
charged  nothing.  He  has  such  a  big  heart  that 
I  tell  him  he  will  die  in  the  poorhouse.  Now, 
I — I  am  very  selfish.  What  I  do  not  give  to 
Madeleine  or  set  aside  for  her  dot,  I  spend  on 
this  little  house  and  garden.  Of  course  I  do 
not  earn  very  much,  but  it  is  a  good,  steady 
work  and  it  is  for  the  republic.  ...  So  you 
are  a  sculptor?" 

The  arrival  of  Alphonsine,  bearing  port  and 
cakes,  saved  Diane  a  reply.  The  neat  old 
woman  served  her  with  a  friendliness  that  was 
unmistakable;  and  when  she  had  poured  the 
wine  and  passed  the  cakes,  it  was  only  too 


94  THE   PAGAN 


evident  that  she  nourished  the  idea  of  lingering 
to  listen  to  the  conversation. 

"It  is  of  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  that  one 
talks  ?"  she  inquired  pointedly.  "Monsieur  per 
mits  that  I  remain?" 

Monsieur  Brissonet  laughed. 

"There  is  the  adoring  old  servant  who 
speaks,"  he  explained  to  Diane.  "That  little 
Madeleine  of  mine — how  she  wins  every  one ! 
It  is  but  recently  that  she  was  chosen  as  'L'En- 
fant  de  Marie'  for  the  village.  But  perhaps 
you  do  not  know  what  it  signifies  to  be  chosen 
'L'Enfant  de  Marie'?  It  means  that  you  are 
the  young  girl  of  the  community  who  has  the 
most  blameless  character  and  displays  the 
greatest  influence  for  good." 

"I  know,  monsieur,"  said  Diane.  "My  sis 
ter  was  once  an  'Enfant  de  Marie.'  " 

"Ah,  that  is  good — that  is  very  good.  I  am 
sure  that  you,  yourself,  mademoiselle,  were  a 
close  competitor  for  the  honor.  And  so  you 
are  Catholic?  They  tell  me  it  is  old-fashioned 
under  the  republic,  but  I  persist.  I  think  it  is 
greatly  out  of  respect  for  the  memory  of  my 
wife,  Madeleine's  mother.  Poor  Madeleine 
has  had  no  mother  for  a  long  time — except  Al- 
phonsine,  here,  who  has  looked  after  Madeleine 
and  me  ever  since  my  wife  died.  How  many 
years  ago  was  that,  Alphonsine?" 

"Sixteen,"  replied  the  neat  old  woman 
gravely.  "Monsieur  knows  as  well  as  I.  Does 
not  monsieur  hang  her  picture  with  crepe  at 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        95 

every  anniversary —  May  the  saints  cherish 
her  in  heaven." 

"Ainsi  soit-il"  said  Monsieur  Brissonet,  and 
blew  his  nose  loudly  with  a  red  handkerchief. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  known  Madeleine's 
mother,"  he  continued.  uShe  would  have  been 
so  pleased  to  have  welcomed  you  here,  and  she 
would  have  done  it  so  much  more  gracefully 
than  I.  She  was  brought  up  with  the  saints. 
That  is  what  I  always  told  her.  It  was  my  lit 
tle  joke.  You  see  her  family  used  to  keep  a 
little  shop  here  in  the  village,  where  one  bought 
images  of  the  saints  and  crucifixes  and  missals 
and  funeral  wreaths.  So  I  would  tell  her  she 
was  brought  up  with  the  saints.  .  .  .  But, 
mademoiselle,  a  thousand  pardons.  I  am  very 
stupid,  I  have  made  you  cry.  My  poor  child, 
what  will  Madeleine  say  to  me  when  she 
sees  I  have  made  you  cry.  Never  shall  I  for 
give  myself  to  have  talked  along  about  these 
sad  things — I  who  in  my  stupidity  fancied  I  was 
telling  you  my  little  joke.  Will  you  pardon  me, 
my  dear  child?" 

He  leaned  toward  her  with  real  concern 
clouding  his  round  red  face,  and  his  eyes 
pleaded  behind  the  spectacles.  Timidly  he  ven 
tured  to  pat  her  hand. 

"The  poor  darling  is  tired,"  said  Alphonsine, 
forgetting  all  formality. 

uYes,"  agreed  Diane.  "Yes,  I  think  that 
I  am  very  tired.  It  is  you,  monsieur,  who  must 


96  THE   PAGAN 


pardon  me.  I  have  perhaps  been  working  too 
hard  at — at  the  atelier." 

She  sat  up  and  dried  her  eyes;  but  her  resolu 
tion  had  left  her.  Never  could  she  bring  her 
self  now  to  shatter  this  simple  old  man's  pride 
and  peace.  Madeleine  she  could  have  struck 
at,  but  not  Madeleine's  father.  And  it  was  such 
a  trivial  thing  that  had  brought  her  to  this 
conclusion — the  mention  of  a  shop  where  were 
sold  wreaths  and  crucifixes  and  little  figures  of 
saints.  Trivial!  But  was  it  trivial?  Of  a  sud 
den  it  became  to  her  all  of  life.  For  it  was  in 
just  such  a  shop  that  she  had  lived  with  her 
mother  and  sister,  and  it  was  such  a  shop  that 
she  had  left  behind  her  on  the  night  that  she 
had  stolen  away  to  Paris.  That  shop  became 
no  longer  a  shop  but  a  symbol — a  symbol  of 
what  she  had  so  lightly  abandoned,  but  which 
from  her  birth  had  been  bred  deep  within  her. 
I  do  not  believe  that  as  yet  it  was  a  sense  of 
guilt  that  urged  her,  it  was  rather  a  transcend 
ing  desire  to  return  to  the  hearth — to  familiar 
and  loved  faces — to  her  mother,  and  Veronique, 
and  the  cure,  and  to  her  mother's  shop  and  the 
cure's  church  on  the  square,  and  to  Evremont 
and  the  soothing  murmur  of  the  Seine  whisper 
ing  to  the  poplars. 

"I  must  go,  Monsieur  Brissonet,"  she  said, 
rising.  "I  ask  pardon,  but  I  must  go.  I  can 
not  wait." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  he,  and  meant  it.  "It  is 
too  bad  —  Madeleine  should  be  here  long 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        97 

ago.     Do   you   care   to   leave   some   message, 
perhaps?" 

"Yes,"  said  Diane,  and  hesitated.  Then, 
holding  out  both  hands  to  Monsieur  Brissonet, 
she  said:  "Tell  Madeleine  that  I  am  very  glad 
I  came.  And  tell  her  that  to  have  seen  you  has 
done  me  a  great  deal  of  good." 


WHEN  she  returned  to  the  studio  that  even 
ing,  Bruno  was  sitting  by  the  stove,  smoking  a 
pipe,  impatient  for  his  dinner. 

"Bruno,"  she  said,  "you  will  have  to  cook 
your  own  dinner  to-night  and  eat  it  alone." 

"What  is  that?"  said  he. 

"I  am  leaving  you,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Leaving!"  he  exclaimed,  setting  down  his 
pipe  in  mild  surprise.  "Where  are  you  going?" 

"Home — to  Evremont." 

"Come,"  he  said  kindly,  "what — what  is  the 
trouble?" 

"The  trouble  is  with  me.  You  have  not 
changed.  I  have.  So  I  am  leaving  you." 

He  opposed  the  resolution  sincerely  and  ve 
hemently.  He  swore  to  his  fidelity — he  denied 
all  others  but  her.  It  was  in  vain. 

With  a  franc  and  a  few  coppers  in  her  purse 
and  a  slim  bundle  of  clothing  under  her  arm, 
she  went  out  of  the  studio,  leaving  him  too 
dazed  to  remonstrate  further. 


98  THE   PAGAN 


That  night  she  procured  a  bed  at  the  cost  of 
the  franc.  The  next  morning  she  procured 
food  at  the  cost  of  the  coppers.  But  the  follow 
ing  night  she  sat  on  a  bench  by  the  river  in  a 
thin  drizzle  of  cold  rain.  She  had  not  enough 
in  her  purse  to  pay  for  the  journey  home. 

Once  again  she  tried  to  find  employment,  and 
earned  four  sous  for  scrubbing  a  floor  in  a  book 
shop  on  the  rue  du  Bac.  That  was  all. 

When  she  had  gone  without  food  for  two 
days  she  had  only  the  strength  left  to  sit  on  a 
bench  and  dream.  She  visioned  the  red  roofs 
of  Evremont,  shining  clean  and  bright  in  the 
morning  sun;  the  square  where  the  sparrows 
fought  around  the  watering-trough;  the  fields 
sloping  down  to  the  poplar-lined  river. 

But  it  was  nearly  thirty  kilometres  to  Evre 
mont  by  the  road,  and  it  was  by  the  road  that 
she  must  go  if  she  were  to  go  at  all. 

She  said  to  herself:  "I  shall  not  have 
strength  to  reach  it,  but  I  will  start.  If  I  die 
on  the  way  they  will  know  I  tried  my  best  to 
come  home,  and  perhaps  they  will  forgive  me. 
Yes,  it  is  better  to  make  the  effort.  Besides,  the 
river  is  very  cold." 

When  she  reached  this  decision  it  was  night, 
and  she  slept  once  more  on  a  bench  by  the  Seine. 
She  was  aroused  by  the  voice  of  Paris — the 
shouts  of  the  teamsters,  the  whistles  of  the  river 
boats,  the  singsong  of  the  peddlers.  She  shiv 
ered,  for  the  dawn  was  cold  and  damp.  When 
she  stood  up  she  swayed  dizzily  and  clutched 


THE   BOTTOM   OF    THE    CUP        99 

at  the  bench  to  steady  herself.  Before  her  the 
Seine  flowed  smoothly,  gray  and  sullen  save 
where  a  pale  shaft  of  sunlight  penetrated  the 
haze  and  shone  on  the  ripples  like  dull  copper. 
She  stood  contemplating  the  river  for  a  while. 
Then  she  shook  her  head  and  said  aloud :  "The 
roadside  is  nicer  than  the  river."  So  she  turned 
her  back  on  the  river  and  started  for  home. 


FEET   OF    GOLD 


WHEN  Ferdinand  Taillandy,  poet,  pagan,  and 
wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  had  com 
pleted  his  great  epic  he  felt,  surging  high  within 
him,  the  call  of  Paris.  For  eight  years  he  had 
traversed  on  foot  the  untrammelled  wilds,  keep 
ing  his  ear  ever  close  to  the  breast  of  nature, 
that  his  soul  might  be  in  tune  with  her  moods. 
For  eight  years  he  had  worshipped  nature,  seek 
ing  no  divinity  save  her,  and  finding  in  her  one 
god  made  manifest  in  many  forms.  To  his  deep- 
seeing  eyes  there  were  dryads  lurking  in  the 
trees  and  in  the  glades  and  in  the  groves;  there 
were  naiads  in  the  springs  and  in  the  rivers  and 
in  the  lakes;  there  were  nereids  in  the  seas,  and 
always  there  was  Pan,  piping  in  the  forests  or 
on  the  hills.  And  so  he  bent  the  knee  to  all 
nature,  and  knew  no  other  god  but  her. 

But,  his  epic  finished,  he  craved,  like  all  poets, 
a  publisher — he  was  not  (jojitent  to  sing  merely 
to  himself.  And,  moreover,  he  knew  that  the 
epic  was  good.  The  need  of  a  publisher,  then, 
was  his  pretext  for  turning  his  face  to  the  north 
and  to  Paris,  but  it  was  scarcely  this  need  that 
so  quickened  his  feet  and  his  heart.  It  was 
100 


FEET   OF   GOLD  101 

more  than  that,  certainly — it  was  rather  the 
exhilaration  that  the  exile  feels  when  he  is  about 
to  return  home. 

Said  Taillandy  to  himself:  "I  left  Paris  of 
my  own  will;  I  despise  Paris;  Paris  has  caused 
me  only  great  suffering;  Paris  is  neither  Chris 
tian  nor  pagan;  if  I  go  to  Paris  I  am  a  retro 
grade — but,  oh,  ye  gods,  hasten  my  feet  and 
strengthen  my  heart,  that  I  may  get  to  Paris 
the  more  quickly!" 

This  is  comprehensible  and  excusable  only  be 
cause  Paris  was  his  first  home.  Granting  that 
(and  any  one  will  vouch  for  it),  the  conclusion 
is  as  inevitable  as  that  of  a  geometrical  propo 
sition,  and  we  can  wonder  only  that  he  resisted 
the  homing  instinct  so  long. 

He  went  north  by  forced  marches,  following 
the  Rhone  through  Avignon  and  Valence  to 
Lyon,  and  the  Saone  to  Chalon;  thence  by  Di 
jon,  Tonnerre,  Sens,  and  Melun,  to  Paris  and 
the  Porte  de  Charenton.  The  last  twenty-five 
kilometres  he  made  during  the  night,  for  some 
thing  kept  him  at  it,  made  him  loath  to  stop  and 
sleep  with  the  goal  so  close. 

It  was  a  thick,  heavy  morning,  then,  in  No 
vember  when  he  passedHhrough  the  octroi  and 
said  to  himself:  "I  am  home."  And  it  was 
a  morning  of  mist  that  was  almost  rain.  The 
stallions,  harnessed  in  single  file  to  the  market- 
carts,  were  slipping  on  the  treacherous  cobble 
stones,  straining  with  all  their  magnificent  shoul 
ders  at  the  traces — supremely  willing  but  not 


102  THE   PAGAN 


always  successful.  Taillandy,  appreciative  of 
the  play  of  their  muscles,  stopped  to  admire 
them;  and  while  he  stopped  he  became  aware 
of  a  woman  standing  at  his  elbow. 

He  did  not  trouble  to  look  at  her,  for  women, 
as  individuals,  were  of  little  account  in  his  life. 
He  had  loved  one  woman  once  and  been  sorry 
for  it.  That  was  enough.  Perhaps  she  had 
been  afraid  of  his  intensity;  perhaps  he  had 
given  her  too  much  of  himself;  perhaps  he  had 
endeavored  to  halo  mortal  clay — or  perhaps 
she  had  been  simply  a  timorous,  flexible  little 
thing  with  an  empty  blond  head  and  a  heart  that 
he,  at  least,  had  been  unable  to  quicken.  At 
any  rate,  I  know  that  she  had  told  him  that  she 
loved  him,  and  then  the  first  breeze  of  parental 
opposition  had  blown  her  into  another  man's 
arms.  That  is  the  story — we  will  not  strive  to 
place  the  blame. 

To  Taillandy,  then,  women  were  interesting 
only  en  masse:  they  stood  for  something,  they 
must  stand  for  something.  After  all,  one-half 
the  population  of  the  earth  could  not  exist  mere 
ly  that  children  might  be  born.  No,  there  was 
doubtless  some  mystery  about  them  that  ac 
counted  for  their  existence — above  all,  that  ac 
counted  for  their  power.  Why  else  should  they 
(as  they  undoubtedly  did)  motivate  men? 
Why  should  they  have  swayed  nations  and 
killed  kings?  He  gave  it  up,  but  he  continued, 
nevertheless,  his  ardent  worship  of  Diana  the 
Huntress  and  of  Venus  Genetrix. 


FEET   OF   GOLD  103 

The  woman  who  stood  at  Taillandy's  elbow 
was,  at  first  glance,  in  no  way  a  remarkable 
person,  and  it  was  by  sheer  accident  that  they 
came  to  know  each  other.  A  slippery  pavement, 
three  stallions  harnessed  to  an  overloaded  cart, 
a  quick-tempered  driver — there  was  the  acci 
dent,  and  there  the  beginning  of  Taillandy's 
further  education  in  women. 

The  cart  had  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  just  within  the  gates,  and  the  three  stal 
lions  seemed  powerless  to  move  it  forward. 
Obviously  this  delayed  traffic,  and  the  agent  de 
police  on  duty  became  flushed  and  excited,  im 
parting  much  of  his  mood  to  the  driver  of  the 
cart.  The  driver  unsheathed  his  whip,  short  of 
handle  and  long  and  cruel  of  lash,  and  sent  it 
circling  and  shivering  across  the  back  of  the 
leader.  It  was  poor  policy,  for  the  animal  had 
not  been  unwilling.  At  the  stroke  he  started, 
slipped  and  plunged  in  the  traces;  his  hoofs 
struck  sparks  from  the  pavement  as  they  slid 
and  floundered,  struggling  in  vain  for  a  foot 
hold,  and  finally,  snorting  and  writhing,  his  legs 
went  from  under  him  and  he  fell  over  on  his 
side. 

The  woman  next  to  Taillandy  gave  a  little 
cry,  half  fear  and  half  pity,  and  clutched  at  his 
arm.  When  he  turned  he  saw  that  she  was  very 
white — and  not  unbeautiful. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  get  out  of  this. 
There  is  nothing  one  can  do  when  beasts  are 
whipping  beasts." 


104  THE   PAGAN 


She  tottered,  clinging  to  his  elbow. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  going  to. 
faint." 

"I  am  sorry;  try  not  to  for  a  moment,"  he 
recommended. 

He  almost  carried  her  to  the  nearest  side 
walk  cafe,  put  her  into  an  iron  chair  behind  an 
iron  table,  and  ordered  a  cognac. 

She  drank  it  and  shivered  at  the  heat  of  it. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,"  she  said.  Then, 
slowly  and  for  the  first  time,  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  look  at  him. 

Taillandy  still  clung  to  his  thirties,  and  his 
eight  years  of  nomadic  life  had  kept  him  young 
and  buoyant.  He  was  not  handsome — he  was 
remarkable.  Once  you  had  seen  him  you  would 
never  forget  him:  those  eyes  with  the  sparkle 
of  the  poet  burning  in  them;  that  thin,  brown 
face  with  the  crooked  mouth  and  the  hawk's 
nose;  those  slim,  capable  hands;  and  that  lean, 
restless  body,  jutting  out  angularly  from  his 
abominable  clothes. 

The  woman  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes 
widened  in  astonishment.  Looking  at  her,  he 
reflected  that  astonishment  became  her.  She  was 
at  her  best  expressing  astonishment. 

"I  am  very  hideous,  am  I  not?"  he  remarked 
pleasantly — almost  casually. 

Recovering  herself,  she  looked  quickly  away, 
and  answered  very  demurely  and  properly : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  monsieur;  of  course  you 
are  not  at  all  hideous.  And  I  am  very  grateful 


FEET    OF   GOLD  105 

to  you.  You  were  kind — and — and  I  am  afraid 
that  I  detain  you." 

He  laughed  a  little — quietly,  as  men  laugh 
who  are  accustomed  to  being  alone. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  "from  what  do  you  de 
tain  me?  Am  I  not  in  Paris  where  I  wish  to 
be?  What  more  can  I  desire?*  Should  I  some 
day  scale  Olympus  and  be  admitted  through  the 
gates,  do  you  suppose  that,  once  inside,  I  should 
object  to  being  detained  by — well,  let  us  say  by 
Diana?" 

She  did  not  follow  this  flight — naturally  not 
— but  she  caught  at  the  last  word. 

"Diane  !"  she  exclaimed.  "How  strange  that 
you  should  have  guessed  my  name  1" 

"You  are  called  Diane?"  he  inquired. 

"But  yes,"  she  affirmed. 

"Et  voila"  said  he,  stretching  out  his  hands 
as  if  he  had  won  his  case.  "You  see?  Great 
is  Diane! — Diane  of  what? — of  the  Ephe- 
sians?" 

She  shook  her  head,  at  a  loss. 

"No,"  she  said — "of  Evremont-sur-Seine." 

The  name  must  have  awakened  some  mem 
ory  for  him,  for  he  frowned  and  squinted  up 
his  eyes. 

"No,  no — don't  tell  me,"  he  commanded,  as 
she  was  about  to  speak.  "Let  me  think.  Evre 
mont-sur-Seine  .  .  .  Ah!  I  have  it!  A  vil 
lage  on  the  river  with  poplars  patrolling  the 
banks.  A  little  iridescent  village,  all  light  and 
bright  and  clean — with  a  watering-trough  in  the 


106  THE   PAGAN 


square — and  sparrows.  Yes,  hundreds  of  spar 
rows.  And  a  lark  or  two  for  the  morning.  And 
a  shop  where,  if  one  is  a  Christian,  one  should 
take  off  one's  hat  and  kneel.  Ah,  yes — now  I 
remember,  now  I  remember !  She  was  called 
Madame  Nicolas,  she  who  kept  the  shop,  and 
she  was  a  saint.  I  am  no  Christian — I  am  a 
pagan — but  Madame  Nicolas  .  .  .  Ah,  well, 
one  does  not  have  to  be  a  Christian  to  do 
homage  to  a  Christian  saint." 

He  was  carried  out  of  himself;  he  was  aglow 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  remembering;  and  he 
was  disappointed  to  find  that  Diane  remained 
quiet,  unkindled. 

"You  don't  know  her,  then,"  he  protested — 
"you  don't  know  Madame  Nicolas?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  perceived,  at 
length,  that  she  was  crying  as  quietly  and  secret 
ly  as  possible. 

"Ah,"  said  he  softly,  and  then  again,  "Ah!" 
But  for  the  present  he  said  no  more  about  Ma 
dame  Nicolas.  Rather  he  arose,  called  loudly 
for  the  check,  paid  it,  put  his  hand  on  her  shoul 
der,  and,  with  great  heartiness,  exclaimed: 
"Now  we  shall  go  and  breakfast.  You  are  hun 
gry  and  so  am  I.  We  shall  traverse  Paris  and 
breakfast  at  the  Closerie  des  Lilas,  where,  once 
upon  a  time,  I  was  at  home.  Come — allons} 
mon  enfant!  En  avant!" 

She  protested — not  very  vehemently.  She 
claimed  she  was  not  a  cheerful  companion;  he 
had  better  seek  some  one  else ;  it  was  one  of  her 


FEET    OF   GOLD  107 

sad  days.  Besides,  she  was  not  well  dressed — 
her  shoes  and  her  blouse  .  .  .  He  laughed 
loudly,  pointed  to  his  own  rags,  and  more 
especially  to  the  hole  in  the  top  of  his  hat  which 
revealed  his  straight,  long  black  hair. 

"What  do  we  care  for  clothes!"  he  cried. 
uAre  we  not  young  and  beautiful?  Diana  and 
— and  Pan.  Hand  in  hand  they  will  now  enter 
a  fiacre!" 

He  was  not  to  be  thwarted  in  his  holiday 
mood.  Moreover,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
the  thought  of  quitting  her  displeased  him.  He 
wanted  a  companion  to  encourage  him,  to  laugh 
at  and  with  him,  above  all  to  listen  to  him.  Per 
haps  he  was  beginning  at  last  to  realize  in  a 
small  way  why  it  is  good  that  women  exist. 

Taillandy,  at  least,  enjoyed  that  drive  to  the 
full.  He  was  thrusting  his  head  constantly 
from  the  windows  to  point  out  places  that  he 
remembered  and  places  that  he  would  never 
forget.  At  first  they  kept  to  the  Seine — he 
couldn't  see  enough  of  the  Seine — and  he  prided 
himself  on  his  ability  to  call  each  bridge  by  its 
name. 

"Presently,"  said  he,  "when  we  have  passed 
the  Halle  aux  Vins,  we  shall  come  to  the  Boule 
vard  Saint-Germain.  Then  we  shall  leave  the 
river.  .  .  .  There,  what  did  I  tell  you?  Au 
revoir,  Seine !  Hail,  Musee  de  Cluny  and  Ecole 
de  Medecine  !  To  the  left,  cocker!  One  must 
see  the  Odeon.  Ah,  the  famous  days — and  the 
famous  nights,  par  bleu!" 


108  THE   PAGAN 


Always  he  grew  more  eager,  more  excited. 
By  Zeus,  was  he  not  back  again  in  his  own  Paris 
after  eight  years?  Why,  then,  pretend  to  be 
calm?  Diane,  of  course,  had  not  attempted  to 
suggest  that  he  be  calm.  She  liked  him  the  way 
he  was — tempestuous,  vibrant,  a  boy. 

They  drew  up  with  a  flourish  in  front  of  the 
Closerie  des  Lilas  on  the  Boulevard  du  Mont- 
parnasse.  It  was  his  favorite  haunt  in  the  old 
days,  in  the  old  days  eight  years  ago  when  he 
damned  women  and  strove  to  forget  them  all 
because  one  had  forgotten  him.  There  it  was 
that  men  had  first  called  him  great;  there  it  was 
that,  when  he  was  sober,  much  of  his  early 
poetry  had  been  written;  and  there  it  was  that 
they  had  crowned  him  king.  He  found  that, 
as  he  paid  the  driver,  his  eyes  were  dim. 

"My  dear,"  said  he  to  Diane,  "if  you  don't 
make  me  laugh,  I  shall  begin  to  cry." 

"What  is  it  that  troubles  you?"  she  asked, 
a  hand  on  his  arm. 

He  smiled  crookedly  and  answered:  "Eight 
years  of  absence — that  is  all." 

"It  is  a  great  deal,"  said  she  soberly.  "I 
understand." 

He  changed  his  mood  with  an  effort,  and  be 
came  deliberately  gay. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  cried,  "we  shall  see  what  is 
altered.  We  shall  see  whether  they  still  re 
member  Ferdinand  Taillandy." 

He  was  not  kept  long  in  doubt.  A  waiter  in 
shirt-sleeves  and  apron  who  was  brushing  the 


FEET    OF   GOLD  109 

floor,  stood  up  from  his  task  as  they  entered, 
and,  seeing  Taillandy,  raised  his  hands  heaven 
ward  in  a  delirium  of  joy  and  astonishment. 

"But  it  is  Monsieur  Ferdinand!"  he  cried. 
"Or  else  perhaps  his  ghost!" 

Taillandy,  jubilant  at  the  immediate  recog 
nition,  extended  two  hands  and  said  warmly: 
"My  good  Hippolyte — my  good  Hippolyte !" 

A  buxom  lady  in  black  came  hurrying  out 
from  behind  her  high  desk,  her  fingers  busy  at 
her  hair  ( for  she  was  not  too  young  to  be  vain) . 

"Monsieur  Ferdinand!"  she  exclaimed — "is 
it  truly  you  returned  to  us?  You  will  kill  us 
with  such  sudden  joy!"  And  she  put  a  hand 
to  her  heart — or  as  close  to  her  heart  as  her 
figure  permitted. 

"Dear  Madame  Maupin,"  answered  Ferdi 
nand,  embracing  her  frenziedly.  "You  grow 
younger  and  more  beautiful  each  year.  Of 
what  marvellous  waters  do  you  drink?" 

"Always  the  Vichy  Celestins,"  she  answered; 
and  then  she  slapped  him  coyly  and  said: 
"Vieux  blagueur!" 

For  some  minutes  they  stood  off  to  appraise 
him,  to  take  him  all  in,  to  see  what  changes 
eight  years  had  wrought  in  him.  Diane,  tem 
porarily  neglected,  hung  in  the  background  un 
til  Taillandy,  feeling  that  she  was  ill  at  ease, 
led  her  forward  by  the  arm  and  presented  her 
to  Madame  Maupin  as  "his  little  friend 
Diane." 

"But  I  know  Mademoiselle  Diane,"  said  the 


110  THE   PAGAN 


caissiere.  "Were  you  not  here  a  few  nights  ago 
with  Monsieur  Bruno,  the  artist?" 

Diane  nodded  and  blushed,  looking  quickly 
at  Taillandy  and  as  quickly  away. 

"Yes,  madame,"  she  said. 

"Ah,"  said  Taillandy— "with  old  Bruno, 
hein?  I  am  surprised  that  that  one  still  lives. 
And  how  do  you  like  old  Bruno  ?" 

"He  was  kind,"  answered  Diane.  "Yes,  he 
was  kind.  When  I  was  starving  he  fed  me." 

"It  was  the  least  he  could  do!"  exclaimed 
Taillandy— "the  old  satyr!" 

Then  he  turned  on  her  so  suddenly  that  she 
started  back  with  a  little  cry,  frightened. 

"And  now!"  he  cried — "and  now!  How 
long  is  it  since  you  have  eaten?  Answer  me 
that.  Or  does  Bruno  still  feed  you?" 

"I  have  left  Monsieur  Bruno,"  she  replied 
after  an  interval. 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  have  eaten,  I  ask?" 
interrupted  Taillandy  fiercely. 

"When  I  met  you,  monsieur,"  she  said 
bravely,  "I  was  going  to  breakfast." 

He  grunted  his  disbelief. 

"Where  were  you  going  to  breakfast?  At 
the  Porte  de  Charenton?  Not  likely." 

"I  was  going  home  to  breakfast." 

"Ah,  you  were  going  home?  To  Evremont- 
sur-Seine?  Twenty-six  kilometres,  hein?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  how  were  you  going?" 

"I  was  planning  to  walk,  monsieur,"  she  said. 


FEET   OF   GOLD  111 

"Ah — voilaf  Now  at  last  we  have  it.  You 
were  going  to  walk  twenty-six  kilometres  for 
your  breakfast  because  you  didn't  have  a  cop 
per  sou.  That  pig  of  a  Bruno !  Why  do  the 
gods  allow  such  tragedies  on  earth!  Here, 
Hippolyte — hasten  thyself — covers  for  two, 
and  all  that  is  best  in  the  house.  The  poor  child 
starves  while  we  air  our  vocabularies.  It  is 
criminal — it  is  unbelievable.  Allez — heup!" 

She  permitted  him  to  lead  her  to  a  seat — he 
did  it  in  the  grand  manner,  but  cheerfully  and 
with  many  lavish  gestures,  gallantly  pretending 
that  he  did  not  see  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  And 
while  they  ate  he  regaled  her  with  a  spirited 
monologue.  He  dwelt  much  on  her  name — 
that  seemed  to  delight  him — and  he  elaborated 
on  it,  calling  her  his  Diana  of  the  Moon,  or  his 
Goddess  of  the  Chase.  It  amused  him  to  pre 
tend  that  they  were  feasting  on  Olympus.  She, 
of  course,  was  unable  to  follow  his  rhetoric,  but 
so  long  as  he  enjoyed  himself  she  was  pleased; 
and  she  ate  with  a  good  appetite  and  no 
affectation. 

When  she  had  finished  the  omelette  aux  fines 
herbes  the  color  came  back  into  her  cheeks  and 
she  was  able  to  laugh  with  him.  He  bade  Hip 
polyte,  whom  for  the  moment  he  had  christened 
Bacchus,  to  fetch  them  some  red  wine  from  the 
cellar — ua  good  wine,  Bacchus,  not  too  heavy; 
a  wine  in  which  one  can  taste  the  grapes." 

It  was  forthcoming,  and  he  drank  her  health 
very  gravely — her  health  and  her  beaux  yeux; 


112  THE   PAGAN 


for  he  now  perceived  for  the  first  time  that  she 
had  large,  dark  eyes. 

At  the  coffee  he  stretched  his  long  legs 
straight  out  under  the  table,  lighted  a  cigarette, 
and  sighed  comfortably  and  profoundly. 

"Now,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  at  his  mouth, 
"I  will  talk  about  myself.  Shall  you  like 
that?" 

"But  yes,"  she  encouraged  him  naively;  "you 
talk  so  well.  You  must  have  studied  a  great 
deal.  I,  as  you  see,  am  very  ignorant.  I  know 
nothing." 

He  laughed  quietly. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "that  is  not  so.  You  know 
a  great  deal.  You  knew  enough  to  start  for 
home  when  you  were  hungry.  I,  on  the  con 
trary,  when  I  was  hungry — I  went  away  from 
home  and  lost  myself  for  eight  years.  But  it 
was  not  food-hunger  that  drove  me  away. 
Rather  it  was  the  hunger  for  consolation.  That 
is  why  I  went  alone.  One  communes  better 
with  nature  when  one  is  alone.  You  see,  the 
stars  will  not  sing  for  an  audience,  and  the  trees 
will  not  whisper  to  a  crowd.  And  the  nymphs 
— ah,  yes,  my  friend,  the  nymphs  are  shy." 

He  paused,  not  to  contemplate  her,  but,  per 
haps,  to  contemplate  his  thoughts. 

"You  are  a  poet,"  said  she,  her  eyes  large 
with  wonder  and  admiration. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  answered — "I  hope  so." 

"You  are  a  great  poet,"  she  continued  with 
growing  awe. 


FEET   OF   GOLD  113 

"I  thank  you,"  said  he.  uAt  least  I  am  not 
a  prolific  one." 

This  brought  him  up  to  the  remembrance  of 
his  epic  and  the  reason  for  his  being  in  Paris. 
I  think  that  he  had  been  in  a  fair  way  to  forget 
both — he  was  so  completely  at  home  there  at 
his  favorite  table  that  the  eight  years  of  wander 
ing  and  working  seemed  scarcely  to  have  inter 
vened. 

"Ha !"  he  exclaimed — "that  brings  me  to 
myself.  I  have  work  to  do  this  morning.  I 
must  see  my  publisher.  And  you,  my  Diane, 
what  do  you  intend  to  do?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  What  was  there 
for  her  to  do  ?  He  questioned  her  a  little.  Did 
she  desire  to  return  home  to  Evremont-sur- 
Seine  ?  She  did  not  know.  She  was  afraid  they 
would  not  want  her.  But  had  she  not  thought 
to  return  there  this  morning  when  he  had  met 
her  at  the  Porte  de  Charenton? 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice. 
"I  was  very  tired  and  I  had  not  eaten,  and — 
and  I  knew  that  I  should  not  be  able  to  walk 
that  far.  But  I  thought  that  it  would  be  bet 
ter  to  try." 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly.  Then  said  he : 
"What  you  mean  to  say  is  that  you  thought  it 
would  be  better  to  drop  by  the  roadside  than  to 
fall  into  the  river." 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  monsieur.  I  was  not 
happy." 

"Compassionate  gods!"  he  cried,  banging  the 


114  THE   PAGAN 


table  with  his  fist.  "You  were  not  happy! 
There  speaks  Melisande.  No,  indeed,  you 
were  not  happy !  You  were  wretched,  you  were 
miserable,  you  were  starving,  and  your  poor  lit 
tle  heart  was  dying  within  you — fluttering  and 
trembling  like  a  stricken  bird.  There,  that  is 
the  city  for  you — that  is  the  city's  work." 

Here,  forgetting  his  recent  enthusiasm  for 
that  self-same  city,  he  relapsed  into  the  mood 
of  bitterness  and  distrust  that  had  driven  him 
from  Paris  eight  years  ago.  He  condemned 
the  city  and  everything  connected  with  it — it 
was  artificial,  it  was  brutal,  it  was  sordid,  it  was 
ugly,  it  was  selfish,  it  was  a  tyrant.  It  stifled 
the  heart  and  it  murdered  the  soul. 

His  philippic  ending  as  abruptly  as  it  had  be 
gun,  he  reached  across  the  table  and  took  her 
hand. 

"Listen,  my  little  one,"  he  said,  "listen  to  me. 
You  are  too  young  and  too  sweet  to  remain  in 
this  pest-hole.  I  am  going  to  care  for  you  from 
now  on — you  shall  be  my  charge.  I  am  going  to 
snatch  you  from  the  maw  of  this  monster  of  a 
city  before  it  gets  your  heart  and  your  soul  as 
well  as  your  body.  It  will  be  one  good  deed  at 
least  credited  to  the  account  of  Ferdinand  Tail- 
landy  before  he  dies.  They  can  carve  it  on  my 
tombstone  if  they  wish :  'He  plucked  a  flower 
from  the  mire  of  a  Christian  city  and  planted  it 
in  the  garden  of  the  gods.'  Ha  !  That  is  some 
thing  to  have  done,  is  it  not?  And  I  shall  revel 
in  it.  To-morrow  we  shall  start — you  and  I. 


FEET   OF   GOLD  115 

To-morrow  in  the  clean,  white  dawn.  And 
I  shall  lead  you  to  the  garden.  I  will  take  you 
by  the  hand  and  show  you  the  wide  spaces  of 
the  world;  and  you  shall  behold  the  sun  with 
new  eyes;  and  the  breeze  shall  blow  through 
your  unbound  hair;  and  you  shall  bathe  in  the 
streams  and  rest  on  the  sweet  earth  and  sleep 
dreamlessly  under  the  singing  stars!  .  .  .. 
Will  you  come  with  me  ?" 

She  hesitated,  seeking  words  with  which  to 
refuse,  but  finding  none,  it  was  finally  a  woman's 
reason  that  she  voiced. 

"I  have  nothing  to  wear,  monsieur — "  she 
began  timidly. 

He  swept  the  objection  aside  with  a  grand 
gesture  of  his  arm. 

"So  much  the  better!"  he  cried.  "We  shall 
travel  the  lighter.  Will  you  come  with  me  ?" 

She  thrilled  to  his  enthusiasm.  She  was 
proud  to  be  his  follower. 

"I  will  go  with  you  anywhere,"  she  said, 
"whenever  you  say  you  are  ready."  And  she 
gave  him  her  two  hands  across  the  table  as  a 
pledge.  He  took  them,  sawed  them  violently 
up  and  down  in  the  air,  reached  over  and  kissed 
her  fraternally  on  the  forehead. 

"Good!"  he  said.  "Meet  me  here  for  din- 
ner  at  seven  this  evening.  We  will  plan.  Now 
I  go  to  my  publisher.  A u  revoir." 

Before  she  realized  it  he  was  out  of  the 
room;  but,  as  suddenly,  he  was  back  again. 

"Here,"  he  explained,  "I  have  almost  for- 


116  THE   PAGAN 


gotten.  One  must  pay  to  live  and  we  shall  be 
separated  for  ten  hours.  Take  this  and  buy 
yourself  some  solid  boots  and  some  thick 
stockings.  One  should  be  well  shod  to  climb 
Olympus." 

II 

THAT  was  a  memorable  night  at  the  Closene 
des  Lilas — and  not  only  that  night,  but,  I  re 
gret  to  say,  several  ensuing  nights;  for  Tail- 
landy,  to  Diane's  chagrin,  could  not  bear  to 
tear  himself  away  from  the  city  and  his  old  dis 
ciples  and  comrades.  Once  more  he  forgot  how 
intensely  he  hated  Paris,  remembering  only  how 
madly  he  loved  it.  The  pagan  child  of  nature 
reverted  and  became  the  boulevardier  and  the 
cafe  prophet. 

But  that  first  night  was  responsible  for  the 
lapse.  Taillandy  enjoyed  himself  so  hugely 
on  that  first  night  that  it  was  only  human  of 
him  to  crave  a  second  and  a  third.  It  was  al 
ways  :  "To-morrow  morning,  my  little  Diane, 
we  will  leave  all  this  behind  us,"  and  always 
on  the  morrow  there  was  some  unreasonable 
reason  why  the  departure  should  be  postponed. 

Diane,  disappointed  grievously  at  first,  grew 
depressed  and  then  worried.  Had  her  great 
godlike  poet,  then,  feet  of  clay?  She  thrust  the 
suspicion  resolutely  from  her  as  unworthy,  and 
instead,  womanlike,  she  endeavored  to  see  what 
she  could  do  to  help  him.  She  knew  that  he 


FEET    OF   GOLD  117 

was  too  good  to  be  wasting  his  days  and  his 
nights  in  the  Closerie  des  Lilas.  She  knew, 
too,  that  champagne  is  no  fitting  diet  for  poets 
— especially  for  poets  who  are  great  enough  to 
be  inspired  without  it — and  so  she  found  her 
self  mothering  her  hero.  Worshipping  him, 
of  course  —  she  would  always  do  that  —  but 
mothering  him  at  the  same  time.  A  curious 
state  of  affairs. 

Taillandy's  publishers,  it  seemed,  had  been 
exuberantly  glad  to  see  him.  His  Triomphe  de 
I'Amour  and  his  Tombeau  de  I'Amour  had 
made  him  famous,  and  his  eight  years  of  ab 
sence  had  given  him  a  sort  of  posthumous  halo. 
If  he  were  not  dead,  why,  so  much  the  better. 
In  brief,  they  gave  him  a  thousand  francs  in 
advance  for  the  epic  and  a  generous  royalty 
on  its  sale. 

Of  that  thousand  francs  Taillandy  spent 
seven  hundred  and  ninety-six  during  the  next 
four  days — ninety-six,  possibly  on  himself,  and 
the  balance  on  his  friends. 

He  had  returned  to  the  Closerie  des  Lilas 
that  first  afternoon  and  had  instructed  Hippo- 
lyte  and  Madame  Maupm  that  he  intended  to 
entertain  that  evening  from  dinner-time  to 
dawn.  They  were  to  invite  any  and  all  of  his 
old  associates  whom  they  should  see.  Every 
thing  in  the  house  was  to  be  free,  and  he,  by 
Bacchus,  would  foot  the  bills. 

The  result  was  that  when  Taillandy  entered 
the  Lilas  at  seven  o'clock  he  was  amazed  to 


118  THE   PAGAN 


discover  what  an  army  of  friends  he  could  lay 
claim  to.  Never  had  the  cafe  been  so  crowded. 

There  was  Bruno,  the  artist,  who,  remem 
bered  with  an  inexplicable  pang,  was  also 
Diane's  friend;  there  was  Jacques  Gaumont,  a 
minor  poet  who  was  attempting  to  follow  in 
the  great  Taillandy's  footsteps,  and  who  suc 
ceeded  merely  in  being  very  shabbily  dressed 
and  very  enthusiastic;  there  was  Baskoff,  the 
Russian,  a  sculptor  of  the  futurist  school,  half 
mad  and  wholly  unprepossessing;  there  was  le 
petit  Martel,  in  velveteens,  who  cried  loudly  for 
a  return  to  the  good  old  days  of  Bohemia,  but 
who  sometimes  dined  surreptitiously  at  the  Cafe 
de  Paris  in  full-dress  clothes  with  a  chapeau 
a  huit  reflets;  there  were  the  two  bearded,  gray- 
headed  veterans  who  remembered  Delacroix 
and  very  little  else ;  there  was  a  young  architect 
or  two  from  the  Beaux-Arts,  and  there  were  a 
score  of  others — nondescripts,  driftwood,  some 
of  them  mad  but  talented,  others  mediocre  but 
sane.  Also,  there  were  a  dozen  girls — models, 
midinettes,  dancers,  and  daughters  of  joy. 

At  Taillandy's  entrance  they  arose  with  a 
roar  of  delight.  They  embraced  him,  they  kissed 
him  on  both  cheeks,  they  pounded  his  back,  they 
cheered  him  deafeningly.  He  was  the  only 
one  of  them  worth  while,  and  subconsciously 
they  knew  it  and  acknowledged  it.  Moreover, 
since  he  had  once  been  one  of  them,  they  now 
felt  a  certain  responsibility  in  his  success.  Had 
they  not  contributed  to  his  greatness  by  their 


FEET    OF   GOLD  119 

encouragement?  Had  he  not  perhaps  imbibed 
some  of  his  inspiration  from  their  companion 
ship?  There  was  not  a  man  there  that  did  not 
envy  his  fame,  but  there  was  not  a  man  there 
that  begrudged  it. 

When  the  first  commotion  had  somewhat 
subsided,  Taillandy  commanded  Hippolyte  to 
serve  dinner.  But  first  he  inquired  for  Diane. 
Had  any  one  seen  Diane? 

"Has  any  one  seen  whom?"  asked  Bruno, 
who  was  at  his  elbow. 

"Diane — Diane,"  answered  Taillandy  im 
patiently.  And  then,  remembering,  he  added 
with  a  frown :  "You  know  her,  Bruno,  I  be 
lieve.  At  least  it  was  not  your  fault  that  she 
did  not  starve." 

"Ah,  you  wrong  me,"  said  the  artist.  "I 
would  have  fed  her  for  life,  but  she  would  not 
permit  it.  She  left  me — she  disappeared." 

"She  did  well,"  replied  Taillandy  gravely. 

Bruno  looked  at  him  quizzically,  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  went  to  take  his  place  at  a 
table. 

"Our  Ferdinand  is  in  love,"  he  announced. 
"That  will  mean  some  very  bad  lyrics,  I  fear. 
It  is  regrettable." 

Taillandy  remained  at  the  door,  smoking 
furiously,  with  an  eye  on  the  clock.  He  would 
not  sit  down,  he  said,  until  Diane  arrived.  No, 
nor  would  he  drink.  There  would  be  plenty 
of  time  for  that. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  Diane  stepped 


120  THE   PAGAN 


hesitatingly  into  the  smoke-stained  light  of  the 
restaurant.  She  was  a  little  out  of  breath,  for 
she  had  been  walking  fast,  and  there  was  color 
in  her  cheeks  and  a  wet  sparkle  in  her  eye. 

"Ah,  my  little  one,'*  said  Taillandy,  "you 
are  late." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  answered.  "I  hurried  as 
fast  as  I  could.  See,  I  have  bought  the  stout 
boots  and  the  thick  stockings,  as  you  desired  me 
to  do,  so  that  we  might  climb — what  was  that 
mountain?" 

"Olympus,"  said  he.  "You  were  wise,  for 
it  is  a  hard  climb.  Come  now  and  sit  down. 
I  have  kept  a  place  for  you  on  my  right.  You 
will  eat  while  I  talk;  and  you  need  not  listen, 
for  I  shall  talk  nonsense.  I  intend  that  this,  my 
one  night  in  Paris,  shall  be  remembered.  It  is 
to  be  a  very  gay  night." 

"But  we  start  at  dawn  to-morrow,  do  we 
not?"  she  reminded  him. 

"Assuredly,  assuredly.  That  is  why  we  must 
make  the  most  of  these  few  hours." 

He  installed  her  beside  him  with  great 
ceremony,  as  if  she  were  the  queen  of  a  carnival. 
Then  he  motioned  to  Hippolyte  to  open  the 
champagne.  .  .  . 

Toward  midnight  Taillandy,  in  response  to 
repeated  toasts  to  himself  and  his  work,  rose 
rather  unsteadily  to  his  feet  and  made  a  speech. 

"Friends — comrades,"  he  began — "and  fel 
low  artists,  no  man  here  is  better  than  his  neigh 
bor:  therefore  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should 


FEET   OF   GOLD  121 

be  called  upon  to  speak  ahead  of  any  other  man 
present.  All  of  us  are  alike  in  that  all  of  us 
are  seeking,  each  in  his  own  way,  the  Truth. 
Naturally,  since  all  of  us  are  artists,  we  seek  the 
Truth  through  Beauty;  and  when  I  say  Beauty 
I  spell  it  with  a  capital  B,  because  Beauty,  as  I 
understand  it,  is  more  than  a  noun — it  is  re 
ligion.  Now,  to  my  eyes,  Beauty  exists  where- 
ever  man  does  not  intrude  the  ugly  work  of 
his  hands.  The  world,  if  left  to  itself,  would 
be  universally  beautiful,  and  in  like  manner  a 
man's  soul,  if  isolated  and  uncontaminated  by 
man-created  ugliness,  would  of  necessity  be 
beautiful.  A  child's  soul,  for  example,  is  beauti 
ful — how  long?  Why,  until  the  child  learns  to 
talk  and  hear  and  understand  the  evil  of  men. 
In  short,  it  is  the  herding  of  men  together  in 
cities  and  communities,  it  is  the  daily  contact 
with  artificiality,  it  is  the  galling  yoke  that  we 
call  modern  civilization  that  has  banished 
Beauty  out  of  our  lives  and  so  has  banished 
Truth. 

"Granting  (and  I  am  sure  you  will  grant  it) 
that  if  a  man  have  no  responsibilities  he  will  be 
happy,  we  may  go  on  to  say  that  if  he  be  happy 
he  will  be  in  tune  with  the  beautiful  and  recep 
tive  to  Beauty.  What,  then  is  the  lesson  ?  Does 
it  not  cry  aloud  in  your  ears?  Be  free  !  Throw 
off  the  shackles  of  civilization  that  weigh  you 
down,  go  forth  into  the  world,  keep  close  to  the 
Beauty  that  the  gods  have  revealed  to  you  in 
nature  and,  casting  down  your  false  idols,  bow 


122  THE   PAGAN 


the  knee  only  to  her.  Cease  to  be  slaves — be 
free!" 

He  sat  down  to  great  applause.  Perhaps 
they  were  in  a  mood  to  applaud  anything,  for 
they  were  unaccustomed  to  champagne  at  six 
teen  francs  the  bottle.  Taillandy  drained  his 
glass,  refilled  it,  and  drained  it  again.  Then 
he  turned  to  Diane :  "Do  not  forget,"  he  said; 
"we  leave  at  dawn  to-morrow." 

"Do  you  think  I  could  forget?"  she  re 
proached  him. 

But  they  did  not  leave  at  the  dawn  of  the 
morrow;  for  at  that  hour  Taillandy  was  sleep 
ing  most  uncomfortably  on  Bruno's  sofa, 
whither  he  had  been  carried  with  difficulty  by 
three  well-meaning  but  unsteady  friends.  As 
for  Diane,  she  had  cried  herself  to  sleep  in  a 
room  over  the  cafe  that  Madame  Maupin  had 
placed  at  her  disposal  for  the  night.  She  was 
up  and  dressed,  however,  at  daybreak,  hoping 
against  hope  that  her  hero  would  not  forget  to 
come  for  her;  and  she  waited,  sad-eyed  at  the 
door,  watching  the  stars  pale  in  the  face  of  the 
glow  that  came  slowly  out  of  the  east,  watching 
the  roofs  and  the  chimney-pots  take  form 
against  a  lightening  sky,  watching  the  shadows 
of  the  houses  stretch  their  blue  lengths  along 
the  street. 

Madame  Maupin,  descending  cheerfully 
from  a  dreamless  sleep,  found  her  at  a  table  by 
the  door,  with  her  face  in  her  hands.  Madame 
Maupin,  taking  in  the  situation  with  the  in- 


FEET   OF   GOLD  123 

tuition  of  a  true  Frenchwoman,  strove  to  con 
sole  her,  saying:  "Come,  my  little  cabbage, 
you  must  not  cry.  He  will  be  back,  and  there 
are  a  great  many  more  mornings  ahead  of  you. 
He  is  doubtless  a  little  tired,  that  is  all,  and  if 
he  is  tired  you  surely  do  not  begrudge  him 
his  sleep." 

Diane  dried  her  eyes  and  tried  to  smile. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said.  "I  am  very  foolish. 
But  I  love  him  so  much,  Madame  Maupin." 

"Of  course  you  do.  Every  one  does.  He 
is  a  wonderful  man,  Monsieur  Ferdinand  is. 
And  a  great  poet.  You  must  remember  that 
and  make  allowances;  for  all  great  poets  get 
drunk.  They  tell  me  that  Monsieur  Paul  Ver- 
laine  was — well,  no  matter.  I  do  not  remem 
ber  him,  and  he  is  dead  now.  But  he  was  a 
great  poet  and  a  wonderful  drinker,  too." 

Diane,  never  having  heard  of  Monsieur 
Paul  Verlaine,  was  of  course  not  greatly  in 
terested.  She  felt  that  it  was  all  the  fault  of 
Paris — that  it  was  Paris  that  was  reaching  out 
hideous,  soiled  hands  to  drag  her  idol  from  his 
pedestal.  And  it  was  then  that  the  high  resolve 
came  to  her  to  save  Ferdinand  from  this  soul- 
devouring  monster.  I  doubt  if  the  irony  of  the 
situation  entered  her  mind.  I  doubt  if  she  re- 
membe^ed  that  originally  it  had  been  he  who 
was  to  save  her  from  the  maw  of  Paris,  who 
was  to  "pluck  the  flower  from  the  mire  of  a 
Christian  city  and  plant  it  in  the  garden  of 
the  gods." 


124  THE   PAGAN 


At  eleven  o'clock  a  perfectly  cheerful  Tail- 
landy  swung  into  the  cafe,  arm-in-arm  with 
Bruno  and  le  petit  Martel,  and  found  a  Diane, 
serene  and  resolved,  there  to  receive  him. 

He  kissed  her  good  morning  on  the  forehead, 
inquired  how  she  had  slept,  was  glad  that  Ma 
dame  Maupin  had  extended  her  hospitality, 
and,  worst  of  all,  asked  Madame  Maupin  if 
she  would  be  good  enough  to  repeat  the  offer 
that  night  or  any  other  night  should  it  be  neces 
sary.  He  would  gladly  pay  the  bill. 

"But,"  ventured  Diane,  "do  we  not  leave 
to-morrow  surely?" 

"Of  course,  my  little  one,"  he  answered — 
"of  course.  To-morrow  at  dawn.  But  it  is 
well  to  be  prepared  in  case  something  should 
intervene  to  delay  us." 

Then,  complaining  of  a  headache,  he  ordered 
absinthe  for  three  and  a  s'irop  de  groseille  for 
Diane.  And  he  took  occasion  to  warn  her  never 
to  drink  absinthe — it  was  very  injurious  and 
led  to  all  sorts  of  follies.  Diane  assured  him 
that  she  would  always  abstain  from  it.  She 
was  uncomfortable;  her  heart  was  heavy;  she 
wished  that  Bruno  were  not  present — she  hated 
Bruno — and  she  believed  that,  if  she  were  al 
lowed  an  hour  alone  with  Taillandy,  she  could 
persuade  him  to  return  to  his  gods.  But  Bruno 
and  le  petit  Martel,  anticipating  perhaps  an 
other  evening  similar  to  the  last,  stuck  close 
to  Taillandy's  elbow,  and  saw  to  it  that  his 
glass  (and  their  own  glasses)  remained  full. 


FEET   OF   GOLD  125 


III 

THE  first  four  days  that  Taillandy  spent  in 
Paris  had  a  striking  similarity.  I  have  pictured 
one  of  them,  endeavoring  to  deal  with  the 
poet's  temporary  downfall  as  leniently  and  as 
delicately  as  possible.  Even  average  men  have 
their  evil  moments  and  are  held  excusable ;  how 
much  more  readily,  then,  must  we  condone  the 
lapses  of  a  genius !  I  do  not  pretend  that  he 
was  blameless,  but,  remember,  he  had  passed 
eight  years  alone,  and  the  reaction  was  bound 
to  be  extreme. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  when 
Diane  saw  that  all  the  signs  and  omens  pointed 
to  another  festival  night,  she  took  matters  into 
her  own  hands  and  made  a  decisive  step. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  Bruno  who  aided 
her  in  her  scheme  to  get  Taillandy  out  of  the 
city.  Perhaps  Bruno,  being  more  advanced  in 
years,  was  tiring  of  the  dissipation;  perhaps  his 
heart  was  really  excellent  at  bottom;  perhaps 
he  cared  for  Diane  more  unselfishly  than  he 
chose  openly  to  admit.  At  any  rate  he  rendered 
her  invaluable  assistance. 

It  was  he  who  interviewed  the  owner  and 
driver  of  the  covered,  two-wheeled  market-cart, 
arranging  with  him  that  he  should  be  at  the 
Closerie  des  Lilas  at  two  o'clock  that  morning. 

"No  vegetables,  my  friend,"  said  Bruno; 
"we  want  no  vegetables,  but  we  desire  plenty  of 


126  THE   PAGAN 


straw  on  the  floor  in  order  that  a  stuffed  turkey 
may  repose  comfortably  thereupon.  And  it  will 
be  a  large  turkey — a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds." 

The  driver  of  the  cart,  disturbed  at  this, 
crossed  himself  violently. 

"It  is  not  a  corpse  that  monsieur  wishes  me 
to  drive  in  my  wagon?" 

Bruno  laughed  cheerfully. 

"Not  quite,"  he  answered.  "It  will  be 
breathing — fire  and  alcohol;  but  it  will  be 
breathing.  Beyond  that  I  promise  nothing." 

The  driver  was  scarcely  reassured.  How 
ever,  if  it  breathed,  if  monsieur  guaranteed  that 
it  would  breathe — well,  for  five  francs  more  he 
would  take  the  chance.  So  it  was  arranged. 

"I  have  ordered  Ferdinand's  hearse,"  Bruno 
reported  to  Diane. 

She  cried  out  in  horror.  He  must  not  say 
such  things;  and  she,  too,  crossed  herself  pre 
cipitately. 

At  seven  o'clock,  the  hour  of  dinner,  when 
the  fete  usually  commenced,  the  Closerie  des 
Lilas  was  packed  to  the  doors.  All  the  guests 
were  present,  hungry,  thirsty,  licking  their  lips, 
but — there  was  no  host. 

"Where  is  he?"  whispered  Bruno  to  Diane. 

"Where  is  he?"  echoed  le  petit  Martel. 

"Where  is  he?"  muttered  the  two  veterans 
who  remembered  Delacroix. 

"Where  is  he?"  chorused  the  models  and  the 
midinettes  and  the  daughters  of  joy. 

Every  one  had  the  question,  but  no  one  the 


FEET   OF   GOLD  127 

answer.  Taillandy  had  not  been  seen  by  any 
one  for  over  two  hours.  Each  thought  that  he 
had  been  with  one  of  the  others.  It  was  very 
strange. 

At  eight  o'clock,  with  much  grumbling,  the 
guests  were  forced  to  order  their  own  dinners, 
which,  owing  perhaps  to  the  obnoxious  prospect 
of  paying  the  check  out  of  their  own  pockets, 
they  ate  with  little  relish.  Moreover,  there  was 
no  sparkling  wine  of  Champagne  to  flavor  the 
meats,  and  no  Taillandy  to  talk  glorious  non 
sense. 

Diane  reluctantly,  and  for  want  of  any  plan 
of  action,  took  her  seat  between  Bruno  and 
le  petit  Martel;  but  she  kept  her  eyes  stead 
fastly  on  the  door  and  replied  to  all  conversa 
tional  efforts  only  in  monosyllables.  Nor  did 
she  eat. 

As  the  hour  advanced  the  gloom  deepened. 
Bruno  and  le  petit  Martel,  bored  and  fatigued 
hazarded  brutal  guesses  at  the  cause  of  Tail- 
landy's  non-appearance. 

Said  Bruno :  "He  is  doubtless  drunk  in  some 
other  cafe." 

Said  le  petit  Martel :  "It  is  probable  that  he 
has  left  Paris  and  gone  back  alone  to  converse 
with  his  gods." 

It  was  this  latter  conjecture  that  hurt  Diane 
the  more.  She  had  planned  to  save  him  and 
he  had  forgotten  her  very  existence.  His 
promises  to  her  had  been  empty  words.  Heart- 
searing  thoughts,  these. 


128  THE   PAGAN 


"Have  no  fear,"  she  answered  Bruno  and 
le  petit  Martel  bravely — uhave  no  fear.  He 
will  come  when  he  is  ready." 

"And  you,"  insinuated  Bruno,  "will  wait  for 
him?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  wait  for  him." 

"You  are  very  faithful,"  observed  le  petit 
Martel  with  a  snicker. 

She  flushed  a  little  but  let  the  remark  pass. 
She  did  not  choose  to  explain  to  them  that  she 
was  Taillandy's  disciple — not  his  mistress.  Be 
sides,  something  told  her  that  they  would  not 
understand,  that  they  would  wink  and  nudge 
each  other  and  snicker,  even  as  le  petit  Martel 
had  already  snickered. 

The  clock  struck  twelve  times — twelve  weary, 
discouraged  strokes.  A  few  chairs  were  pushed 
back,  a  few  checks  (very  modest  ones)  were 
paid,  and  a  few  of  the  guests  yawned  unaffect 
edly,  said  "He  will  not  come,"  and  departed. 
The  two  veterans  who  remembered  Delacroix 
called  for  the  backgammon-board,  and  im 
mediately  forgot  the  passage  of  time. 

The  clock  struck  the  half-hour  —  timidly, 
unobtrusively,  as  if  ashamed  of  itself.  The 
Beaux-Arts  students  went  gloomily  home. 
Bruno  lit  his  pipe  and  ordered  a  cognac  and 
coffee.  Le  petit  Martel,  with  a  show  of  bravado 
called  for  a  bottle  of  champagne,  then  discreetly 
changed  his  mind  and  substituted  a  yellow 
chartreuse.  They,  at  least,  were  determined 
to  see  it  out  if  they  were  forced  to  remain  there 


FEET   OF   GOLD  129 

until  dawn.  Diane  sat  in  silence,  very  tired, 
very  miserable,  ready  to  cry. 

The  clock  struck  one,  surreptitiously,  that 
people  might  perhaps  think  it  was  merely  the 
half-hour.  Hippolyte  began  to  clear  the  tables 
and  to  pile  up  the  chairs  for  the  night.  Ma 
dame  Maupin  was  stacking  up  the  day's  receipts 
in  little  piles  of  copper,  silver  and  gold.  The 
gold  pile,  she  noted,  was  miserably  small  that 
evening. 

And  then,  before  the  clock  was  forced  to 
strike  again,  the  door  swung  violently  open  and 
in  came  Taillandy,  hatless,  his  hair  on  end, 
intoxicated,  but  not  with  wine.  Intoxicated, 
rather,  with  the  sense  of  great  accomplishment. 

He  greeted  no  one,  but  cried  loudly  and  ex 
ultantly:  "I  have  done  it!  It  is  completed — 
and  in  six  hours.  Never  have  I  worked  so 
rapidly  and  so  well.  For  it  is  good,  my  friends, 
it  is  good.  Listen  and  judge  for  yourselves  if 
it  is  not  good.  Oh,  but  I  was  in  the  vein  to 
night  !  I  was  tired — very  tired — and  I  smoked 
fifty  vile  cigarettes  and  wrote  fifty  immortal 
lines.  You  see,  I  am  not  modest.  That  is 
because  I  know  that  it  is  good." 

He  was  tremendously  excited.  There  was  a 
flush  on  his  cheek-bones  as  of  fever,  and  a 
feverish  light  burned  in  his  eyes.  The  two 
sheets  of  paper  that  he  held  trembled  and  rat 
tled  in  his  hands  as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  and  began  to  read. 

What  he  read  was  his  "Hymn  to  Diana  Im- 


130  THE   PAGAN 


prisoned."  We  have  all  read  it  and  recognized 
it  as  his  greatest  lyric;  and  we  all  remember, 
surely,  the  last  quatrain,  which  some  one  has 
translated,  poorly  enough: 

"Why  dost  thou  tarry  in  the  haunts  of  men? 
Cast  off  the  chains  that  bind  thee,  burst  the  bars! 
The  high  gods  call  and,  pleading,  call  again — 
Come  forth  and  live  beneath  the  singing  stars!" 

Put  that  back  into  Taillandy's  French  and 
let  Taillandy  stand  up  and  declaim  it  to  you, 
and  I  warrant  you'll  feel  a  shiver  of  exhilara 
tion  run  up  your  spine.  For  Taillandy  knew 
'how  to  read  his  verse — there  is  no  gainsaying 
that. 

When  he  finished  he  had  them  all  fairly  on 
their  feet.  The  women,  not  understanding 
much  of  what  he  read  them,  nevertheless  wept 
from  sheer  excitement,  Madame  Maupin  the 
most  conspicuously  and  copiously,  Diane  the 
most  quietly.  But  there  was  a  good  bit  of  re 
lief  mingled  with  Diane's  tears.  She  had  her 
hero  back,  more  of  a  hero  than  ever.  Her 
idol's  feet  were  not  of  clay  but  of  gold.  What 
woman  could  resist  weeping  with  such  excellent 
cause  ? 

Vaguely  she  sensed  that  the  invocation  was 
addressed  to  her,  that  the  poet  had  passed  his 
evening  in  solitude,  making  her  immortal  in 
immortal  verse,  that,  far  from  being  forgotten 
by  him,  she  had  been  ever  before  his  inward 
eyes. 


FEET   OF   GOLD  131 

Triumphantly  the  clock  struck  two.  Bruno 
was  the  only  one  to  heed  it;  and  he  approached 
Diane  and  murmured :  "It  is  two  o'clock.  The 
hearse  should  be  at  the  door.  Or  shall  we  call 
it  the  triumphal  chariot  of  fire  that  will  bear 
him,  like  Elijah,  up  to  heaven." 

Before  Diane  could  reply  the  driver  of  the 
two-wheeled  cart  squeezed  his  broad  bulk 
through  the  door.  He  stood  there,  whip  in 
hand,  searching  the  room  for  his  clients. 

"What  do  you  want?"  inquired  Taillandy, 
who  was  nearest  him. 

"My  passengers,"  answered  the  driver. 

"And  who  are  they?"  the  poet  persisted. 

"God  knows,"  said  the  driver.  "But  one  of 
them,  they  told  me,  would  be  very  drunk." 

"I  am  very  drunk,"  said  Taillandy.  "Wine 
never  made  me  more  so.  Moreover,  I  see  no 
one  else  who  is  in  that  condition.  Accordingly 
I  retain  you.  Is  your  wagon  comfortable?" 

"There  is  plenty  of  straw,"  answered  the 
driver. 

"Good.  You  are  hired  then,  until  dawn;  and 
we  start  at  once." 

He  went  to  Diane  and  took  her  by  the  hand. 

"Are  you  ready?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  ready,"  said  she. 

"Then  come.  Let  us  return  to  the  true  gods 
who  are  calling  to  us." 

He  bowed  very  low,  first  to  Madame  Mau- 
pin,  then  to  the  room  in  general. 

"Adieu,"  said  he.     "I  earnestly  hope  that 


132  THE   PAGAN 


some  day  you  will  open  your  eyes  and  see  that 
you  are  slaves. " 

With  Diane  on  his  arm  he  passed  out  of  the 
door  into  the  night.  The  cart  stood  at  the  curb, 
the  huge  percheron  smoking  in  the  chilly  air. 
The  driver  climbed  up  into  his  seat,  and  Tail- 
landy  lifted  Diane  in  his  arms  and  placed  her 
in  the  straw  under  the  canvas  cover.  Then  he 
himself  took  his  seat  beside  the  driver. 

"You  will  be  cold,"  suggested  the  latter. 

"You  are  wrong,"  answered  the  poet;  "I  am 
on  fire." 

"As  you  will,  m'sieu'.  Where  shall  I  drive 
to?" 

Taillandy  bent  toward  him  and  whispered 
in  his  ear. 

"B'en  m'sieuY'  said  the  driver.  "I  know  the 
road  well." 


IV 


AT  dawn — a  white,  cold  dawn  that  turned 
the  frost  to  silver — a  covered  two-wheeled  cart 
jolted  and  rumbled  into  the  public  square  of  the 
village  of  Evremont-sur-Seine.  Taillandy  sat 
upright  on  the  driver's  seat,  with  the  cold  light 
on  his  gaunt  face  and  a  warmer  light  glowing 
in  his  eyes.  Behind  him,  on  the  straw,  lay 
Diane,  sleeping  like  a  child,  with  a  child's  smile 
at  her  lips. 

"To  the  right  here,"  said  Taillandy  softly, 
when  they  had  crossed  the  square.  "To  the 


FEET   OF   GOLD  133 

right,  and  then  directly  to  the  left.  The  shop 
next  to  the  church." 

The  driver,  obeying  directions,  drew  up  in 
front  of  a  small  two-story  plaster  house,  the 
ground  floor  of  which  was  devoted  to  a  shop. 
In  the  windows  were  crucifixes,  artificial 
wreaths,  embroidered  altar-cloths,  and  little 
gilded  and  painted  images  of  saints.  It  was  the 
last  place  one  would  have  expected  a  pagan  to 
visit. 

But  Taillandy,  with  no  hesitation,  rapped 
gently  on  the  door,  casting  a  benevolent  glance, 
meanwhile,  on  the  emblems  of  Roman  Catholi 
cism. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  there 
should  be  such  people  in  the  world.  Does  it 
matter,  after  all,  what  kindles  the  flame  so  long 
as  it  burns  brightly?" 

An  elderly  woman  came  to  open  the  door — 
a  woman  with  a  face  like  one  of  her  graven 
saints. 

"Madame  Nicolas,"  said  Taillandy  bowing, 
"you  are  awake  early.  May  I  come  in  to  warm 
myself?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said.  "Be  good  enough  to 
enter.  I  am  just  now  lighting  the  fire  in  the 
stove." 

He  insisted  on  helping  her  with  the  coals. 
Then  he  said:  "Madame  Nicolas,  you  do  not, 
of  course,  remember  me.  It  is  eighteen  years 
since  I  used  to  come  to  this  shop.  I  remember 
you,  because  you  are  the  sort  of  woman  one 


134  THE   PAGAN 


does  not  forget.     I  am  called  Ferdinand  Tail- 
landy." 

"I  remember  you  now,  Monsieur  Ferdi 
nand,"  she  answered.  "You  were  an  interest 
ing  boy." 

"I  take  no  credit  for  that,"  he  disclaimed. 
"All  boys  are  interesting.  It  is  only  men  and 
women  that  are  occasionally  dull." 

He  hesitated  an  instant.  Then  he  said: 
"Madame  Nicolas,  are  your  two  daughters 
well?" 

"Veronique  is  very  well,"  she  answered  him 
quietly.  "She  is  in  the  kitchen.  Diane" — she 
faltered  a  little — "Diane  has  left  us.  She — 
she  is  working  in  Paris.  We  miss  her  a  great 
deal." 

"Ah,"  said  Taillandy— "exactly." 

Madame  Nicolas  searched  his  eyes  anxiously 
with  hers. 

"Madame  Nicolas,"  he  continued  abruptly 
after  a  silence — "Madame  Nicolas,  do  you 
own  a  calf?" 

"But  no,  Monsieur  Ferdinand!"  she  ex 
claimed,  surprised. 

"That  is  a  pity,"  he  mused.  "I  regret  that 
you  do  not  own  a  calf." 

"What  should  I  do  with  a  calf?" 

"Kill  it,  of  course,"  he  replied  brightly — 
"kill  it!  In  honor  of  your  daughter  who  is  re 
turned  to  you." 

Madame  Nicolas  half-rose  from  her  chair; 
then  she  fell  back  weakly,  trembling. 


FEET    OF   GOLD  135 

"Diane,"  she  breathed,  "you  have  news  of 
my  Diane?" 

"I  have  more  than  news,  Madame  Nicolas, 
I  have  Diane  herself.  She  is  asleep  out  there 
in  the  covered  cart." 

"God  is  merciful,"  said  Madame  Nicolas. 
"He  has,  in  His  own  good  time,  answered  my 
prayers." 

"So  be  it,"  murmured  the  pagan.  "Be  very 
kind  to  Diane,  for  she  has  suffered  much." 

"Let  me  go  to  her,"  said  Madame  Nicolas. 
"My  arms  ache  to  hold  her." 

They  went  out  into  the  chill  morning.  But 
Madame  Nicolas  did  not  know  that  it  was  cold. 
Taillandy  raised  the  canvas  flap  at  the  back  of 
the  cart.  Diane  still  slept  on  the  straw,  her 
head  pillowed  on  her  arm.  As  they  watched 
her  she  stirred  and  sat  upright,  the  smile  still 
at  her  lips,  for  she  had  been  happy  in  her  sleep. 

"Diane!"  cried  Madame  Nicolas.  "My 
blessed  baby  Diane — my  blessed  child!" 

Taillandy  turned  away,  pretending  to  shade 
his  eyes  from  the  sun. 

"These  Christians,"  he  muttered,  "are  over- 
demonstrative."  And  he  brushed  a  tear  im 
patiently  from  his  nose. 

When  he  had  hardened  himself  sufficiently 
to  look  around  without  betraying  his  lamentable 
weakness,  he  saw  that  he  was  forgotten.  Diane 
was  gathered  close  to  Madame  Nicolas's  breast, 
and  Madame  Nicolas  was  crooning  over  her 
softly,  as  if,  indeed,  she  were  a  child. 


136  THE   PAGAN 


The  poet  and  pagan  shrugged  his  shoulders 
with  a  feeble  imitation  of  his  old  bravado. 

"I  fear,  Ferdinand,"  he  said  to  himself — 
"I  fear  that  you  have  lost  a  disciple.  Your 
creed  does  not  seem  to  be  popular.  However, 
you  have  done  to-day  what  I  suppose  they  would 
call  a  'Christian  deed.'  Ainsi  soit" 

He  climbed  once  more  up  into  the  driver's 
seat. 

"Where  now,  m'sieu'?"  asked  the  driver 
stolidly. 

"Where  ?"  repeated  the  pagan.  "Anywhere  ! 
Get  me  away  from  these  Christians.  They  are 
weakening  to  a  man's  resolution.  They  sap 
his  manliness.  They  appeal  insidiously  to  the 
maudlin,  sentimental  side  of  his  nature.  Bah ! 
That  sun  is  very  glaring,  driver.  Do  you  see 
how  it  makes  my  eyes  water?  Turn  around 
and  face  the  south,  and  flog  your  horse  a  little. 
What  was  it  that  King  Agrippa  said  in  their 
Bible?  Ah,  I  have  it  now:  'Almost  thou 
persuadest  me  to  be  a  Christian.'  Flog  your 
horse,  driver — flog  your  horse !  I  must  get 
out  of  here.  It  is  dangerous,  I  tell  you — dan 
gerous.  Flog  your  horse,  driver,  and  drive  me 
to  the  south — to  the  south  where  the  nereids 
are  laughing  and  leaping  and  calling  to  one  an 
other  across  the  waves  of  the  far-resounding 
sea.  Farewell,  Diane — adieu.  I  go  back  alone 
to  the  gods." 

Obediently  the  driver  plied  his  whip,  the 
horse  broke  into  a  heavy,  swaying  trot,  the 


FEET   OF   GOLD  137 

cart  bounced  and  rattled  over  the  cobblestones, 
and  Ferdinand  Taillandy,  pagan  and  poet,  be 
came  once  more  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the 
earth. 


THE    END   OF   THE    ROAD 

I 

ON  a  June  morning  Monsieur  Silvestre,  the 
landlord  of  the  Cafe  du  Levant,  sat  under  the 
street  awning  drinking  beer  with  the  cure  of  the 
little  church  across  the  square.  They  had  dis 
cussed  religion  and  politics  until  those  vital 
subjects  and  the  tall  foaming  glasses  were 
drained  dry.  Then  the  landlord  ordered  a 
second  round  and  the  topic  of  conversation 
shifted. 

"One  hears  nothing  more  of  that  Ferdinand 
Taillandy,"  remarked  Monsieur  Silvestre. 
"There  was  a  type  for  you!  There  was  one, 
at  least,  who  had  no  use  for  your  religion.  A 
pagan,  he  called  himself.  I  suppose,  now,  you 
consign  men  like  him  to  hell-fire." 

"I  consign  no  man  to  hell-fire,"  answered  the 
cure  calmly.  "There  are  some,  however,  who 
consign  themselves:  they  think  it  modern — 
fashionable." 

"You  refer  to  me,  perhaps?"  suggested  the 
landlord  quickly. 

The  cure  laughed,  shaking  his  head. 

"You !"  he  echoed.  "Why  should  I  refer  to 
you,  my  friend?  Before  this  year  is  out  you 
will  be  coming  to  me  for  confession  and  com 
muning  at  the  altar.  I  have  no  fears  for  you." 
138 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          139 

He  paused  to  raise  the  glass  to  his  lips. 
Then  he  added:  "It  is  of  Taillandy  I  am 
speaking.  Monsieur  Silvestre,  the  church  wants 
that  man — he  is  too  good  to  lose.  So  admirable 
a  pagan — think  what  a  Christian  one  could 
make  of  him !  I  wish  I  had  him  here." 

The  landlord  nodded  his  head  sarcastically. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "it  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
see  you  two  together.  Taillandy  talks  well. 
He  could  argue  with  you  more  effectively  than 
I.  Yes,  it  would  be  a  pleasure — for  me." 

"My  friend,"  said  the  cure  sharply,  "you  and 
he  have  nothing  in  common.  Taillandy  believes 
— in  something:  you  believe  in  nothing.  He 
would  scorn  your  agnosticism.  In  truth,  his 
belief  differs  from  mine  very  slightly;  he  is  far 
nearer  to  me  than  to  you.  He  sees  gods  in  every 
thing,  whereas  I  see  God  in  everything.  The 
distinction,  you  observe,  is  slight." 

Monsieur  Silvestre  puffed  out  his  cheeks  in 
a  sigh. 

"There,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  out-talk  me  as 
usual !  All  the  more  I  wish  Ferdinand  Tail 
landy  were  with  us,  he  who  can  turn  phrases 
as  well  as  you.  Have  you  read  his  'Hymn  to 
Diana  Imprisoned'  ?" 

"I  have,"  said  the  cure.  "It  is  admirable. 
Have  you  read  the  Song  of  Solomon?" 

"No,"  admitted  Monsieur  Silvestre. 

"It,  too,  is  admirable." 

"Where  can  I  find  it?"  asked  the  landlord 
incautiously. 


140  THE   PAGAN 


"In  your  Bible,"  said  the  cure,  and  drained 
his  glass,  well  pleased. 

t( l  Touched  grunted  Monsieur  Silvestre.  "It 
is  I  who  pay  for  the  beers." 

Presently,  when  the  sun  had  swung  up  high 
above  the  square,  the  cure  perceived  Madame 
Nicolas  coming  from  her  shop  beside  the 
church.  The  landlord,  too,  marked  her  in  the 
distance,  for  the  streets  of  the  village  of  Evre- 
mont  were  never  so  crowded  but  that  one  could 
distinguish  Madame  Nicolas.  Nor  was  any 
one  in  Evremont  ever  too  busy  or  too  hurried 
to  greet  her. 

She  was  a  serene,  motherly  woman,  now  past 
middle  age,  who,  with  her  daughters  Diane  and 
Veronique,  kept  the  little  shop  where  good 
Catholics  purchased  the  consoling  symbols  of 
their  faith.  But  always  Madame  Nicolas  gave 
something  more  priceless  than  anything  she 
sold.  As  the  cure  put  it:  "When  you  buy  a 
rosary  from  Madame  Nicolas  you  obtain  a 
great  deal  more  than  a  rosary — you  obtain 
a  glimpse  of  peace  on  earth;  and  you  depart 
convinced  that  God  is  good." 

Even  Monsieur  Silvestre,  professed  agnostic, 
fairly  worshipped  Madame  Nicolas. 

"There,"  he  said,  "there  is  the  morning  sun 
light." 

She  crossed  the  square,  careful  not  to  dis 
turb  the  sparrows  drinking  and  fidgeting  at  the 
watering-trough,  and  approached  the  Cafe  du 
Levant. 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          141 

"Good  morning,"  she  greeted  them.  "I 
come  to  inform  Monsieur  le  cure  that  I  have 
finished  mending  the  altar-cloth.  Diane  and 
Veronique  and  I  worked  until  late  last  night. 
Diane  and  Veronique  have  done  beautifully — 
but  I — my  fingers  are  a  little  old  and  my  eyes 
a  little  dim.  My  portion  of  it  might  be  better." 

The  cure  hastened  to  assure  her  that  he  had 
no  anxiety  as  to  the  quality  of  her  work.  He 
knew  it  of  old.  Then  said  Monsieur  Silvestre : 
"We  were  talking  but  now  of  Ferdinand  Tail- 
landy.  Have  you  news  of  him,  Madame 
Nicolas?" 

She  shook  her  head  gravely. 

"No,"  said  she,  "we  have  heard  or  seen 
nothing  of  him  since — since  he  found  my  Diane 
and  brought  her  back  to  me  from  the  city.  It 
is  impossible  now  to  thank  him  for  what  he  did, 
but  I  pray  for  him.  He  is  a  good  man." 

"He  is  not  of  the  church,"  Monsieur  Sil 
vestre  could  not  forbear  saying. 

"No,"  she  agreed  quietly,  "nor,  for  a  long 
time,  was  Saint  Paul." 

"I  perceive,"  responded  Monsieur  Silvestre 
with  a  shrug,  "that  you  Christians  claim  us  all. 
If  you  count  Taillandy  and  me  among  you,  it 
would  appear  that  your  religion  is  tolerant." 

"Belief,"  said  the  cure,  "is  always  tolerant. 
It  is  only  unbelief  that  is  bigoted.  The  dogma 
of  the  agnostic  is  very  strict — perhaps  because 
he  fears  that  any  day  a  little  ray  of  faith  will 
come  to  disturb  him." 


142  THE   PAGAN 


"You  talk  me  to  death,"  remarked  the  land 
lord,  "and  I  have  work  to  do.  I  will  bid  you 
good-by."  And  he  retreated  sulkily  to  the 
shelter  of  his  desk  within  the  walls. 

They  smiled  at  his  discomfiture,  for  they 
knew  his  moods  and  loved  him  for  them  and 
in  spite  of  them. 

Then  said  Madame  Nicolas:  "Monsieur  le 
cure,  may  I  talk  to  you  for  a  while — about 
Diane?" 

The  cure  drew  a  chair  for  her  beside  him. 

"You  may  talk  to  me,  Madame  Nicolas, 
about  anything." 

For  a  space  she  remained  silent,  searching 
doubtless  a  method  of  beginning.  Her  hands 
were  unquiet  and  there  was  a  hint  of  trouble 
clouding  her  kind  gray  eyes. 

"You  know  Felix — Felix  Romarin?"  she 
asked  at  length. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  cure,  "I  know  him 
certainly — and  then?" 

"Do  you  think  well  of  him?" 

"Ah,  now,  Madame  Nicolas,  what  shall  I 
say?  Yes,  I  think  well  of  him.  Also  I  am 
sorry  for  him.  He  has  a  devil  within  him  that 
may  some  day  send  him  headlong  down  a  steep 
place  into  the  sea.  But  we  are  trying  to  cast 
out  that  devil — Felix  and  I — and  I  have  the 
hope  that  with  God's  help  we  shall  succeed. 
Felix  is  of  the  south — his  family  come  from 
Cagnes — and  in  the  south  men  strike  before 
they  think  or  before  they  speak.  They  wound 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD  143 

with  their  hands  rather  than  with  their  tongues. 
I  am  not  sure  that  on  that  account  they  are  more 
blameworthy  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord,  but  cer 
tainly  they  are  more  blameworthy  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law.  The  magistrate  has  seen  Felix  on 
several  occasions.  Thus  far  he  has  been  lenient; 
next  time  perhaps — but  what  has  Felix  done 
now?" 

"He  has  fallen  in  love  with  Diane,"  an 
swered  Madame  Nicolas  simply. 

The  cure  whistled  softly  and  perplexedly. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  —  "I  understand. 
Or,  rather,  I  do  not  understand." 

"He  desires  to  marry  her  at  once,"  said  Ma 
dame  Nicolas. 

"Yes,  yes— and  she?" 

"What  would  you?  She  does  not  love  him 
— she  likes  him  well  enough  perhaps.  She  asks 
me.  It  is  difficult." 

"Indeed,  yes,  it  is  difficult,"  pondered  the 
cure.  "It  is  an  opportunity,  of  course,  and  not 
a  bad  one.  Felix,  as  I  said,  is  not  bad  at  heart 
— impulsive  only.  And  Diane — ah,  Madame 
Nicolas,  it  is  a  sad  truth  that  when  a  young  girl 
has  sinned  there  are  few  sinners  who  will  for 
give  her." 

"I  know,"  said  Madame  Nicolas  wistfully, 
"I  know." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"I  think — "  began  the  cure,  and  stopped. 
Then — "Let  us  wait  awhile,  Madame  Nico 
las,"  he  said.  "Let  us  wait  and  see  how  much 


144  THE   PAGAN 


in  earnest  Felix  is.  And  perhaps — who  knows? 
— Diane  will  come  to  love  him  at  least  a  little. 
Then,  in  that  case,  let  her  marry,  Madame  Nic 
olas,  and — ah,  well,  let  her  marry  and  bear 
children  who  will  resemble  their  grandmother." 

But  Madame  Nicolas,  with  the  merest  trace 
of  a  smile  in  return  for  the  compliment,  shook 
her  head. 

"I  wish  I  might  believe  that  they  could  marry 
and  be  happy,"  she  said,  ubut  I  know  my 
Diane.  She  will  not  marry  Felix  because  she 
loves  another." 

"And  the  other,  I  suppose,  does  not  love  her. 
Always  it  is  like  that  with  a  woman.  Your 
Diane,  Madame  Nicolas,  is,  I  fear,  annoyingly 
feminine." 

"What  would  you  wish?  Can  even  a  man 
control  his  heart?" 

The  cure  glanced  away  rather  hastily.  He 
had  once  been  two-and-twenty. 

"No,"  he  said,  "you  are  right.  A  man  can 
but  smother  his  heart." 

"And  still  be  happy?"  persisted  Madame 
Nicolas. 

He  sighed  and  smiled. 

"And  eventually  be  not  unhappy,"  he  an 
swered.  "But  we  are  becoming  too  abstract, 
and  I  am  certain  you  did  not  come  to  me  to 
discuss  generalities.  Tell  me,  if  you  wish,  who 
is  this  other  man  whom  Diane  loves  and  who 
is  senseless  enough  not  to  love  her." 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          145 

"It  is  Ferdinand  Taillandy,"  said  Madame 
Nicolas. 

"Ah,"  said  the  cure;  and  then  he  added: 
"Of  course." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  asked. 

"Why?  Because  that  man  is  in  every  one's 
mind.  He  has  become  an  obsession  with  all  of 
us.  Monsieur  Silvestre  and  I  were  but  just  now 
quarrelling  over  him " 

"That  proves  nothing,"  interjected  Madame 
Nicolas  with  a  smile,  "you  and  Monsieur  Sil 
vestre  would  quarrel  about  a  sparrow." 

"You  have  said  it,"  agreed  the  cure;  "but 
nevertheless  Ferdinand  Taillandy  seems  to  be 
of  greater  importance  than  a  sparrow.  Cer 
tainly  his  flights  are  longer." 

He  stopped  and  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
shading  his  eyes  from  the  sun.  Madame  Nico 
las,  following  his  gaze,  saw  in  the  distance, 
far  down  the  road  that  bordered  the  river,  a 
gray  figure  of  a  man  walking  briskly  toward 
them.  There  was  a  bulky  something  strapped 
to  his  back,  and  in  his  hand  he  swung  a  stick. 
Occasionally  he  skipped  a  little,  as  if  rejoicing 
in  the  beauty  and  freshness  of  the  day,  and  oc 
casionally  he  made  wonderful  passes  and  lunges 
with  the  stick  into  the  empty  air. 

"He  is  gay,  that  one  there,"  observed  Ma 
dame  Nicolas. 

The  cure  did  not  answer,  nor  did  he  remove 
his  eyes  from  the  figure. 


146  THE   PAGAN 


"He  skips  like  a  lamb,"  continued  Madame 
Nicolas. 

"Do  you  forget,"  said  the  cure,  "that  it  is 
spring?"  And  still  he  did  not  look  away. 

The  stranger  drew  rapidly  nearer.  A  stray 
breath  of  the  breeze  bore  to  them  a  fragment 
of  song  from  his  lips. 

"He  sings,  too,"  said  Madame  Nicolas.  "I 
wonder  is  he  of  the  circus." 

The  cure  vouchsafed  no  reply,  but  he  got  up 
from  his  chair  that  he  might  see  the  better. 

"Tiens"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "c'est  bien 
drole!" 

"Why,"  demanded  Madame  Nicolas,  "do 
you  so  excite  yourself?  It  is  not  the  first  time 
a  stranger  has  come  to  Evremont." 

Suddenly  the  cure  broke  into  loud  laughter 
and  sat  down.  He  slapped  the  table  with  his 
hand  until  the  glasses  trembled  and  threatened 
to  fall.  Madame  Nicolas  regarded  him  in 
amazement.  Down  the  road  the  stranger  was 
singing  lustily  now.  They  could  hear  the 
words : 

"L,1  Amour  est  enfant  de   boheme, 
Qui   na  jamais   connu   des   his" 

The  cure  could  not  cease  his  laughter. 

"What  have  you?"  demanded  Madame  Nic 
olas,  distressed. 

"Where  are  your  eyes?"  retorted  the  cure. 
"I  fear,  Madame  Nicolas,  that  you  are  near 
sighted." 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          147 

"I  am,"  said  she,  "but  what  harm?  Is  it 
any  one  I  know?" 

The  cure's  response  was  indirect. 

"Monsieur  Silvestre!"  he  called — and  again: 
"Monsieur  Silvestre  1  Three  tall  beers — and 
cold  ones!  Monsieur  Ferdinand  Taillandy,  if 
I  am  not  mistaken,  will  be  thirsty!" 


II 

TAILLANDY,  as  the  cure  had  foreseen,  made 
direct  for  the  Cafe  du  Levant.  He  had  walked 
far  that  morning — indeed  he  walked  far  every 
day,  and  had  for  nearly  nine  years — and  he 
knew  by  experience  that  Monsieur  Silvestre's 
beer  was  good.  Moreover,  as  a  young  man  in 
his  early  twenties,  he  had  known  the  landlord 
and  the  cure  and  Madame  Nicolas,  and  he  had 
teased  Veronique  and  Diane  when  they  were 
children  and  had  pigtails  to  pull.  So  he  ap 
proached  the  Cafe  du  Levant  with  an  eager 
step,  anticipating  both  beer  and  benedictions. 

Monsieur  Silvestre,  the  cure,  and  Madame 
Nicolas  arose  to  make  him  welcome.  They 
vied,  one  with  the  other,  in  cordiality,  for  Mon 
sieur  Silvestre  admired  his  mind,  the  cure  cov 
eted  his  soul,  and  Madame  Nicolas — ah,  Ma 
dame  Nicolas  had  given  him  her  heart  ever 
since  he  had  found  Diane  and  brought  her  back 
from  Paris  one  cold  November  dawn. 

"Monsieur  Ferdinand,"  said  she,  "you  left 


148  THE   PAGAN 


so  quickly  that  morning  that  I  could  not  thank 
you  for  what  you  had  done.  And  now  I  see 
you  again  after  these  months  and,  behold,  I 
find  no  words." 

"Madame  Nicolas,"  answered  the  poet,  "you 
need  no  words.  I  received  your  thanks  when 
I  saw  the  light  come  into  your  eyes  on  that 
morning.  I  am  a  pagan,  but  a  pagan  can  be 
proud  to  have  been  of  service  to  such  a  Chris 
tian  as  you.  I  am  your  very  humble  servant, 
Madame  Nicolas,"  and  he  bent  very  gallantly 
to  kiss  her  hand. 

"So,"  remarked  the  landlord  eagerly,  "you 
are  still  a  pagan?  You  still  believe  in  all  those 
gods?" 

Taillandy  raised  his  eyebrows  in  surprise. 
Then  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  stretched  him 
self  in  the  sunlight,  flicked  an  ash  from  his 
cigarette  with  a  nicotine-stained  finger,  and 
smiled — an  amused,  crooked  smile — under  his 
gay  mustache. 

"But  yes,"  he  said,  "but  yes.  Naturally,  I 
believe  in  the  true  gods.  Why  should  I  not? 
They  are  everywhere  about  me.  One  has  but 
to  open  one's  eyes  to  see  them." 

"Are  they  in  that  beer?"  queried  Monsieur 
Silvestre  maliciously. 

Taillandy  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  little 
vexed.  "No,"  said  he  gravely.  "I  see  nothing 
in  the  beer  but  a  dead  fly." 

"Bravo !"  applauded  the  cure. 

"Thank  you,"   said  Taillandy.      "Does  he 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD  149 

trouble  you,  too,  Monsieur  le  cure,  with  his 
scepticism?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  fear  that  it  is  I  who  trouble  him 
with  my  belief.  He  tries  to  convert  us  all  to 
his  agnosticism — I  believe  that  is  the  name  he 
calls  it  by.  It  is  a  handsome  word  and  sounds 
intellectual.  But  all  it  means,  I  am  told,  is: 
'I  don't  know.'  Well,  that  is  Monsieur  Sil- 
vestre.  Always  he  does  not  know." 

Madame  Nicolas  shook  her  head,  smiling. 
"Monsieur  Silvestre  is  a  fraud,"  she  said.  "He 
is  a  lamb  in  wolfs  clothing.  It  is  I  who  have 
seen  him  often  enough  without  his  disguise,  and 
he  has  the  largest  heart  in  Evremont-sur-Seine. 
Diane  says  that  when  no  one  is  looking  he  is 
always  doing  some  good  deed  and  blushing  with 
shame.  Several  mornings,  when  he  thought  no 
one  was  about,  she  saw  him  scattering  crumbs 
for  the  sparrows  out  there  by  the  watering- 
trough." 

"They  become  hungry  in  the  winter,"  said 
Monsieur  Silvestre  gruffly.  "I  can't  have  them 
dying  in  front  of  my  cafe." 

"And,"  continued  Madame  Nicolas,  "he 
bought  the  crutches  and  the  invalid's  chair  for 
little  Baptiste,  that  poor  lame  boy." 

"I  give  up,"  said  Monsieur  Silvestre.  "You 
see  good  in  everything  and  everybody.  You 
would  doubtless  see  something  to  praise  in  the 
devil  himself." 

"Why  not?"  interposed  the  cure.  "His  per 
severance  surely  is  commendable." 


150  THE   PAGAN 


"We  talk  too  much,"  asserted  the  landlord. 
"Let  us  give  Monsieur  Taillandy's  ears  a  rest. 
He  should  have  much  of  interest  to  tell  us. 
From  where  do  you  come,  Monsieur  Ferdi 
nand?  I  am  told  you  have  walked  all  over  the 
map  of  Europe  in  the  last  nine  years." 

"Austria — the  Tyrol — northern  Italy.  High 
up  for  the  most  part.  As  near  as  possible  to 
the  stars.  Next  to  the  sea  I  love  a  mountain. 
The  sea  soothes  me,  but  a  mountain  exalts  me. 
It  is  like  solemn  music.  Then,  too,  I  am  fond 
of  pine-trees — straight,  tall,  clean  pine-trees, 
such  as  grow  on  heights.  Have  you  ever  seen 
a  winter  moon  shining  through  a  forest  of  pines, 
their  shadows  black  on  the  snow?" 

"Are  you  never  lonely?"  asked  Madame 
Nicolas  a  little  wistfully. 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly,  as  if  she  had  cor 
rectly  read  some  secret  thought  of  his  which 
he  was  loath  to  admit  even  to  himself. 

Then  he  said :  "There  are  always  dryads 
for  company." 

"There  are  what?"  demanded  Monsieur 
Silvestre. 

"No  matter — you  would  not  understand. 
You  will  never  see  them.  There  are  scores  of 
them  hiding  in  those  poplars  down  there  by  the 
river,  but,  alas,  Monsieur  Silvestre,  you  will 
never  see  them.  .  .  .  And  now,"  he  added 
after  a  silence,  "and  now  that  I  have  finished 
my  beer  I  am  going  to  ask  Madame  Nicolas  to 
grant  me  a  favor.  I  am  going  to  ask  her  to 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          151 

take  me  across  to  her  shop  and  let  me  see  its 
treasures." 

"But  certainly,"  cried  she.  "Only  I  fear 
there  are  no  treasures." 

"There  is  one  that  is  priceless,"  he  said; 
"there  is  Diane." 


Ill 

MADAME  NICOLAS'S  shop  was  in  immaculate 
order,  for  she  and  her  two  daughters  would 
have  considered  it  akin  to  sacrilege  that  dust 
should  lie  on  the  pictures  and  statuettes  of  the 
saints,  or  that  there  should  not  be  a  fitting  and 
comfortable  place  for  each  wreath  and  rosary. 
The  place  had  the  air  of  repose  that  one  as 
sociates  more  with  a  museum  or  a  chapel  than 
with  a  store  where  articles  are  bought  and  sold. 
It  was  hard  to  say  whether  Madame  Nicolas's 
personality  endowed  it  with  this  serene  tranquil 
atmosphere,  or  whether  Madame  Nicolas's 
serenity  and  tranquillity  were  lent  her  by  the 
shop  and  its  consecrated  contents. 

"Come  in,  Monsieur  Ferdinand,"  she  said. 
"Veronique  should  be  in  the  kitchen,  but  I  will 
fetch  her.  As  for  Diane — here  she  is  at  the 
desk.  There  will  be  no  measure  to  her  joy." 

The  meeting  of  Diane  and  Taillandy  would 
perhaps  have  been  difficult — a  little  constrained 
— had  Taillandy  not,  fortunately,  been  Tail 
landy. 


152  THE   PAGAN 


"Here,  then,  after  all  these  months,  is  my 
Diane  of  the  Moon!"  he  exclaimed,  seizing  her 
two  hands.  "It  is  good  to  see  you  treading  the 
earth.  You  have  not,  I  hope,  forgotten  the 
mad  poet." 

Forgotten  him,  indeed !  The  reverse  was  so 
true  that  she  blushed  a  little. 

"One  does  not  forget  the  noblest  man  in  the 
world,"  she  said. 

"Ha !"  cried  he,  "now  I  perceive  how  easily 
reputations  for  nobility  are  made !  I  have  al 
ways  wondered  why  so  many  merely  mediocre 
fellows  are  esteemed.  Doubtless,  in  a  moment 
of  aberration,  they  committed  some  one  good 
deed." 

"Is  not  a  poet  called  great,  even  if  he  has 
written  but  one  great  poem?"  ventured  Diane. 

The  pagan  smiled  at  her  affectionately. 

"Not  until  he  is  dead,  my  dear,"  he  assured 
her.  "Then  all  his  bad  poems  are  either  for 
gotten  or  included  in  anthologies  of  verse." 

This  was,  of  course,  over  Diane's  head.  In 
deed,  most  of  his  conversation  left  her  dazed 
and  bewildered — but  always  admiring. 

He  could,  I  think,  have  recited  to  her  the 
alphabet  and  she  would  have  thought  it  all  very 
wonderful  and  the  work  of  an  inspired  genius. 
But  she  was  spared  the  necessity  of  a  reply  by 
the  entrance  of  Madame  Nicolas  and  Veron- 
ique — the  latter  glowing  (not  at  all  unattract 
ively)  from  the  kitchen. 

"Monsieur  Ferdinand,"  said  Madame  Nico- 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          153 

las,  "do  you  remember  my  daughter  Ve- 
ronique?" 

Taillandy  bowed  low. 

"I  do,"  said  he,  "very  distinctly.  She  had 
bare  legs  when  I  knew  her  and  used  to  like  to 
be  kissed." 

The  girl  smiled  gravely  at  him.  Then  she 
blushed,  glanced  at  her  mother,  and  said:  "I 
wear  stockings  now,  but  otherwise  I  doubt  if 
I  have  changed." 

"Good!"  cried  the  poet,  and  embraced  her 
on  both  cheeks.  Then  he  stood  off  and  surveyed 
the  three  of  them,  evidently  with  approbation. 

"The  mother  of  the  Gracchi !"  said  he. 
"You  are  Cornelia  and  those  are  your  jewels. 
You  are  greatly  to  be  envied,  Madame 
Nicolas." 

His  enthusiasm  pleased  and  confused  them. 
But  it  was  enthusiasm  well-founded.  Diane  he 
had  known  to  be  lovely,  for  he  had  seen  her 
within  the  year;  but  Veronique  he  had  not  seen 
for  many  years.  She  was  slightly  older  than 
her  sister,  slightly  calmer,  slightly  more  poised. 
She  was  tall  and  dark,  with  smooth  hair  fram 
ing  a  narrow,  oval  face.  In  her  brown  eyes 
lay  something  of  the  calm  and  the  confidence 
that  was  her  mother's — the  calm  and  the  con 
fidence  earned  by  suffering  borne  and  ended. 
More  reticent  perhaps  than  Diane,  she  was 
more  of  a  riddle  to  solve.  You  felt  never  quite 
sure  that  Veronique  would  say  or  do;  you  felt 
always  sure  that  Diane  would  obey  her  im- 


154  THE   PAGAN 


pulses,  and  in  time  you  could  learn  the  nature 
of  these.  Taillandy  had  learned  their  nature 
and,  learning  that,  had  learned  her  charm.  She 
was  the  second  woman  in  his  life  to  alter  his 
life :  the  first  one  had  driven  him  disconsolate 
into  exile ;  the  thought  of  the  second,  just  when 
his  solitary  nomad's  existence  had  become  sweet 
to  him,  caused  that  existence  to  seem  aimless, 
sterile,  intolerable.  Man  was  not  made  to  live 
alone.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  wan 
derer  returned  to  Evremont-sur-Seine,  where  he 
had  every  reason  to  expect  he  should  find  Diane 
and  solace. 

Madame  Nicolas  broke  in  on  his  meditations 
by  extending  an  invitation  to  luncheon.  Every 
thing,  he  reflected,  was  being  made  easy  for 
him.  They  were  receiving  him  open-armed. 
And  then  he  heard  Diane  say,  a  little  irritably: 
"Felix  Romarin  will  be  here  also.  Had  you 
forgotten,  mother?" 

It  was  obvious  that  Madame  Nicolas  had 
forgotten — she  might  well  have  forgotten  more 
important  things  than  that  in  her  enthusiasm 
at  this  unlooked-for  opportunity  to  display  her 
gratitude.  She  experienced  a  brief  moment  of 
discomfiture — a  moment  not  so  brief,  however, 
but  that  Taillandy  marked  it  and  said:  "Per 
haps  another  day,  Madame  Nicolas.  My  stay 
at  Evremont  is  indefinite." 

She  protested  earnestly  and  sincerely,  vow 
ing  that  there  was  plenty  to  eat  for  all.  "But," 
said  Taillandy  to  himself,  "it  was  not,  I  am 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          155 

sure,  the  question  of  food  that  embarrassed  her. 
It  was  this  Felix,  whoever  he  may  be."  And 
he  was  not  wrong. 

In  the  interval  before  the  arrival  of  Felix 
the  pagan  noted  that  Veronique  was  the  only 
one  to  appear  quite  herself — the  only  one  who 
did  not  fidget  uneasily  or  glance  at  the  clock. 
Diane  seemed  moody — now  distrait,  now  very 
talkative  and  vivacious;  and,  as  for  Madame 
Nicolas,  she  was  as  distressed  as  a  woman  of 
her  innate  serenity  and  self-control  could  be. 

"A  little  drama,  perhaps,"  mused  Taillandy, 
always  observant.  "One  man  too  many  at  the 
table.  I  had  almost  forgotten  how  complex 
civilized  existence  is.  Well,  when  this  Felix 
arrives  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see." 

When  Felix  arrived  Taillandy  saw  a  dark- 
skinned,  dark-eyed  youth  with  a  shock  of  black 
hair  that  curled  evidently  in  spite  of  the  brush 
— a  youth  of  quick,  abrupt  gestures  and  speech, 
a  youth  of  twenty-three,  perhaps,  with  a  mouth 
that  could  smile  radiantly  or  could  turn  sullen 
at  a  word.  He  saw  a  lithe,  active  youth,  supple 
as  a  cat,  graceful  as  a  cat,  and,  thought  Tail 
landy,  treacherous,  perhaps,  as  a  cat. 

The  two  men  mistrusted  each  other,  I  think, 
from  the  very  first;  but  once  again  it  was  Tail 
landy  who  was  able  to  ease  the  strain. 

"You  come  from  the  south,  monsieur?"  he 
inquired  courteously,  "unless  I  misjudge  your 
accent." 

"Yes — from  Cagnes." 


156  THE   PAGAN 


"Ah,  true  ?  I  know  it  well.  It  bathes  its  feet 
in  the  sea — and  what  a  sea !  Picture  to  your 
self,  Madame  Nicolas,  a  blue  sea  that  sparkles 
like  the  eyes  of  Aphrodite,  that  is  edged  with 
foam  as  white  as  her  white  arms — a  sea  whose 
laughter  among  the  rocks  is  like  the  glad  laugh 
ter  of  nereids.  Cagnes,  I  tell  you,  bathes  her 
feet  in  that  sea,  and " 

"And,"  interrupted  Felix,  "Cagnes  is  truly 
blessed  in  its  foot-tub." 

Taillandy,  annoyed  at  the  interruption, 
frowned  a  little;  then,  thinking  better  of  it, 
smiled  and  bowed. 

"It  is  as  you  say,  monsieur — Cagnes  is 
blessed  in  its  foot-tub." 


IV 

IT  was  not  a  particularly  successful  luncheon. 
Taillandy  did  his  best,  which  meant  that  he 
talked  a  great  deal,  and  Felix,  resenting  the  ease 
with  which  the  poet  conversed  on  unintelligible 
subjects,  grew  silent  almost  to  the  point  of  be 
ing  openly  impolite.  Moreover,  Diane  ignored 
Felix,  ignored  him  wholly  to  the  point  of  being 
impolite — but  I  doubt  if  this  was  deliberate  on 
her  part.  One  does  not,  after  all,  pay  much  at 
tention  to  the  moon  when  the  sun  is  high. 

Things  went  no  better  after  the  meal,  and 
this  was  due  to  the  fact  that,  in  the  rear  of  the 
house,  there  was  a  garden — a  careful,  neat, 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          157 

well-groomed  little  garden  such  as  the  French 
bourgeois  loves.  It  was  rectangular;  it  was 
hemmed  in  by  a  low,  white  wall  with  red  tiles 
capping  it  and  green  vines  draping  it.  At 
places  a  sunflower  or  a  hollyhock  peered  curi 
ously  over  this  wall,  that  outsiders  might  be 
envious  and  regret  that  they  were  outsiders. 
Two  straight  paths  traversed  the  garden  at 
right  angles  and  divided  it  into  four  parts,  and 
a  plaster  Cupid,  aiming  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
marked  trimphantly  their  intersection.  At  the 
centre  of  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  and  there 
fore  in  line  with  the  Cupid,  was  a  stone  bench, 
carved  as  Madame  Nicolas  would  tell  you,  by 
the  hands  of  her  dead  husband.  To  this  bench, 
then,  came  Taillandy  and  Diane,  while  Felix 
sulked  indoors. 

"We  will  talk,"  observed  the  pagan  simply, 
as  he  took  his  seat  beside  her.  "Or  rather,  you 
shall  talk,  and  for  once  I  will  listen.  .  .  . 
This  Felix?  He  loves  you?" 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  remonstrated  Diane. 

Taillandy  nodded. 

"Precisely — he  loves  you.  But,  name  of  a 
name,  naturally  he  loves  you!  The  one  ques 
tion  of  interest  is — do  you  love  him?  Answer 
me  that,  my  little  Diane — and  answer  truly." 

He  looked  her  seriously  and  fixedly  in  the 
eyes,  and  there  was  no  trace  of  a  smile  at  his 
lips  but,  rather,  his  high  eyebrows  were  knit 
in  a  frown  of  doubt  and  of  anxiety.  It  seemed 
he  placed  great  weight  on  her  reply. 


158  THE  PAGAN 


She,  a  little  frightened  by  his  intenseness, 
hesitated,  blushed,  looked  at  him  and  then 
away,  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  speak  but,  in 
stead,  put  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed. 
.  .  .  Ah,  woman,  where  is  thy  mystery ! 

Of  course  he  should  have  taken  her  in  his 
arms  to  comfort  her ;  but  Taillandy,  who  under 
stood  many  things  divine,  understood  not 
human  woman — and,  more  especially,  human 
woman  in  tears. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  contritely.  "I  have 
given  you  pain — I  have  asked  too  much.  Will 
you  forgive  me?" 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  space;  but  presently 
she  threw  back  her  head,  brushed  the  tears  from 
her  eyes  with  an  impatient  hand,  achieved  a 
smile,  and  said:  "It  is  nothing;  I  am  foolish; 
I  cry  for  nothing  at  all.  Always  I  have  been 
that  way.  But  now,  you  see,  it  is  past,  my  fool 
ishness,  and  I  will  answer  your  question.  Mon 
sieur  Ferdinand,  I  love  a  great  many  things  in 
this  world:  I  love  my  mother  and  I  love  Ve- 
ronique;  I  love  Monsieur  le  cure  and  I  love 
Monsieur  Silvestre;  I  love  the  Seine — not  the 
Seine  of  Paris" — she  shuddered  a  little — "but 
our  Seine,  the  Seme  of  Evremont,  with  the  pop 
lars,  and  the  meadows,  and  the  cows,  and  the 
little  boats.  I  love  all  these  things,  Monsieur 
Ferdinand,  and  yet — is  it  not  strange? — I  do 
not  love  Felix." 

"The  gods  be  praised!"  murmured  Tail 
landy. 


THE   END    OF   THE   ROAD          159 

She  stole  a  glance  at  him,  and  in  that  glance 
was  a  trace  of  the  Eve  that  had  always  been 
in  her. 

uAnd  why,"  she  asked  demurely,  "should 
the  gods  be  praised?" 

"Why?"  he  echoed,  and  then  again,  very 
triumphantly:  "Why?  Why,  because,  my 
Diane  of  the  Moon,  the  gods  have  planned  a 
different  destiny  for  you,  and  it  is  not  good  that 
the  gods  be  thwarted." 

He  raised  his  long  arms  as  if  calling  all 
Olympus  to  witness;  and  as  he  did  so  he  saw 
Felix  Romarin  coming  down  the  path  from  the 
house. 


PERHAPS  Felix  thought  that  he  had  sulked 
long  enough  in  his  tent.  After  all,  sulking  is 
ineffective  and  therefore  unsatisfying  unless  the 
act  is  attracting  attention — causing  pain,  for 
example,  or  anxiety,  or  even  pity.  To  sulk  un 
heeded  is  sheer  waste  of  time  and  energy. 

Now,  Madame  Nicolas  and  Veronique  had 
talked  pleasantly  and  comfortably  across  Felix's 
most  obstinate  silence.  In  vain  had  he  endeav 
ored  to  emphasize  the  facts  that  his  feelings 
were  hurt,  that  he  took  no  interest  in  their  con 
versation,  that  he  considered  himself  ill  used. 
They  remained  persistently  cheerful,  and  as 
soon  as  they  perceived  that  he  ignored  their 
questions  they  forbore  to  question  him. 


160  THE   PAGAN 


Finally,  in  a  rage,  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
left  the  room  for  the  garden,  where  he  well 
knew  he  was  not  wanted. 

"I  fear  there  will  be  trouble,'*  said  Madame 
Nicolas  anxiously. 

"He  has  a  quick  temper,"  said  Veronique. 

"But  at  bottom  a  good  heart,"  added  Ma 
dame  Nicolas. 

"It  is  far  at  the  bottom  to-day,"  concluded 
Veronique,  and  snapped  the  silk  thread  of  her 
embroidery  viciously.  .  .  . 

When  Felix  reached  the  bench  at  the  end  of 
the  garden  he  stood  silent  before  Diane  and 
Taillandy,  his  arms  folded,  his  head  down, 
watching  them  from  under  sullen  brows.  He 
did  not  know  what  he  wished  to  say — what  he 
had  come  to  say — so  he  said  the  most  unfor 
tunate  thing  possible. 

"Have  you  talked  enough  with  your  lover 
from  Paris?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Taillandy's  arms 
dropped  slowly  to  his  sides  and,  as  slowly,  he 
got  up  from  his  seat. 

"Go  back  to  the  shop,  Diane,"  he  said  quiet 
ly.  "I  will  talk  with  this  Romarin  a  little." 

"No — no!"  she  cried,  clutching  at  his  hand. 
"You  must  not  stay  alone  with  him — you  do 
not  know  Felix.  He  is  mad — he  sees  red — 
and  when  he  is  that  way  he  will  do  anything." 

"So  I  perceive,"  answered  the  pagan,  and 
the  crooked  smile  came  to  his  lips,  but  mirth 
lessly. 


THE   END    OF   THE   ROAD          161 

"No,"  continued  Diane,  "it  is  I  who  will 
talk  a  little  with  this  Romarin.  And  when  I 
finish  I  shall  talk  with  him  no  more.  Felix, 
listen  well.  It  is  of  the  utmost  seriousness — 
what  I  have  to  say." 

Felix  clenched  his  fists,  but  his  eyes  sought 
the  ground  and  he  flushed  darkly  —  perhaps 
from  anger,  perhaps  from  shame. 

"Let  me  deal  with  him  alone,"  he  said.  "He 
is  a  man  and  I  am  a  man.  It  is  easier  that  way. 
I  can  do  nothing  with  you  —  you  know  that. 
You  are  a  woman — you  are  my  woman — the 
woman  I  love.  That  also  you  know.  I  cannot 
talk  to  women.  Let  me,  I  say,  deal  with  him." 

"I  am  the  woman  you  love — I  ?"  cried  Diane. 
"When  you  love  a  woman,  then,  do  you  insult 
her?" 

"If  the  woman  I  love  hurts  me,"  said  Felix, 
"I  strive  to  hurt  her." 

"And  if—"  interposed  Taillandy,  "and  if 
the  man  you  hate  hurts  you,  what  do  you  do?" 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Then — "I  strive 
to  kill  him,"  answered  Romarin. 

"In  that  case,"  argued  Taillandy,  "since  I 
seem  to  be  the  offender,  why  do  you  not  kill 
me  at  once?  With  what  weapon  are  you  accus 
tomed  to  commit  murder? — the  knife? — the 
revolver?  —  or,  perhaps,  the  slow  poison? 
Come,  my  friend,  you  are  rather  absurd.  You 
seek  doubtless  to  frighten  me,  but,  you  per 
ceive,  it  is  not  I  that  am  afraid  to  die — it  is 
you  that  are  afraid  to  kill.  And  that  is  quite 


162  THE   PAGAN 


as  it  should  be,  for  no  pagan  hesitates  to  die, 
whereas  all  Christians  hesitate  to  kill.  This 
repugnance  of  bloodshed  is,  if  I  may  point  it 
out  to  you,  a  weakness  derived  mainly  from 
Christianity  and  from  our  modern  and  unnat 
ural  state  of  civilization.  You  are  told,  I  be 
lieve,  to  love  your  enemies;  but  do  you  not  see 
how  impossible  that  is  ?  A  man  can  love  some 
one  who  has  been  his  enemy,  or  some  one  who 
may  eventually  become  his  enemy,  but  the  in 
stant  a  man  loves  his  enemy,  why,  then  he  is 
simply  loving  his  friend — and  we  are  all  of  us 
quite  capable  of  doing  that.  In  fact,  it  would 
be  just  as  unnatural  for  a  man  to  hate  his  friend 
as  it  would  be  for  a  man  to  love  his  enemy — 
just  as  unnatural  and  just  as  impossible.  But 
perhaps  you  will  ask — is  not  hatred  unbeauti- 
ful,  and  therefore  something  to  be  shunned? 
The  answer  is  simple :  there  are  beautiful  ha 
treds  and  unbeautiful  hatreds,  just  as  there 
are  beautiful  loves  and  unbeautiful  loves.  Is 
the  hatred  of  tyranny  more  ugly  than  the  love 
of  tyranny;  or,  if  you  will  be  more  concrete,  is 
the  man  who  hates  a  tyrant  more  blameworthy 
than  the  man  who  loves  a  tyrant?  .  .  .  But 
perhaps  I  bore  you.  It  is  a  subject  on  which  I 
am  inclined  to  become  discursive.  Always,  al 
ways,  I  talk  too  much.  Is  it  not  so,  Diane?" 
He  turned  to  smile  at  her,  and  this  time  there 
was  mirth  in  his  smile.  And  then  he  did  a 
strange  thing — strange  because  it  was  success 
ful:  he  took  each  of  them  by  an  arm  and  led 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          163 

them  calmly  up  the  path  to  the  shop.  And,  to 
keep  up  their  spirits  on  the  way,  he  recited  to 
them  an  ode  from  Horace,  which,  of  course, 
neither  of  them  understood  in  the  least.  Felix 
went  unprotesting.  I  think  that,  for  the  mo 
ment,  Taillandy's  rhetoric  had  him  cowed. 


VI 


TAILLANDY  made  his  home  at  Evremont  in 
an  up-stairs  room  of  the  Cafe  du  Levant. 
Monsiur  Silvestre,  needless  to  say,  was  de 
lighted  to  have  such  an  illustrious  comrade, 
and  Monsieur  le  cure  visited  the  cafe  even  more 
frequently  than  before.  That  Taillandy  loved 
to  talk  there  is  no  denying;  but  also  there  is  no 
denying  that  this  audience  of  two  loved  to  listen 
to  him.  At  the  little  table  on  the  sidewalk  he 
arranged  the  affairs  of  earth  and  of  heaven : 
he  upset  ministries,  he  dethroned  kings;  he  pom 
melled  civilization,  and  annihilated  all  creeds 
but  his  own.  Often,  to  be  sure,  he  contradicted 
himself,  but  that  is  the  way  of  all  fluent  and 
eloquent  men.  At  the  end  of  three  days  he 
had  the  world  so  transfigured  that  all  was  right 
with  it — a  prodigious  feat,  you  must  admit,  to 
perform  at  a  cafe-table. 

But  he  did  not  neglect  Diane.  At  Evremont- 
sur-Seine  one  rises  early,  and  Taillandy,  trained 
by  his  years  of  solitary  wandering  to  rise  by  the 


164  THE   PAGAN 


sun  rather  than  by  the  clock,  adapted  himself 
readily  to  the  custom.  And  so  it  came  about 
that  his  hours  with  Diane  were  the  twilight 
hours  of  dawn  and  sunset — those  miraculous 
hours  when  our  senses  are  the  most  acute,  when 
we  are  gladdest  or  saddest,  when  we  love  life 
the  most  or  fear  death  the  least. 

As  for  Felix  Romarin,  for  the  time  being 
he  was  out  of  the  picture.  If  any  one  worried 
about  him  it  was  the  cure,  who  was  aware  that 
he  had  given  up  his  employment  and  had  been 
drinking  more  than  was  good  for  him.  Felix 
never  troubled  the  Cafe  du  Levant  (for  reasons 
known  doubtless  to  Monsieur  Silvestre),  but 
twice  during  the  week  he  had  been  forcibly 
ejected  from  that  more  plebeian  resort  known 
as  the  Cafe  de  la  Victoire;  and  this  was  omi 
nous,  inasmuch  as  the  management  of  the  Cafe 
of  Victory  was  notoriously  lenient. 

One  day,  at  noon,  Taillandy  met  Felix  cross 
ing  the  square. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  poet;  "it  is  a  hand 
some  day." 

Felix  stopped  short  and  regarded  him,  sway 
ing  slightly  where  he  stood. 

"Some  may  think  so,"  he  replied  ungra 
ciously. 

"Which  implies,  I  presume,  that  some  do 
not?" 

Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  steadied 
himself  with  a  hand  on  the  watering-trough. 

"Every  one  has  his  turn,"  said  he.    "For  the 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          165 

moment  you  are  up  and  I  am  down.  But  that 
may  change — who  knows?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  agreed  the  poet;  "who 
knows?" 

Romarin  stared  at  him. 

"I  know,"  he  said  briefly,  and  passed 
on.  ... 

Now,  in  June  the  days  are  long,  and  Evre- 
mont,  dining  early,  finishes  its  cognac  and 
coffee  before  sunset.  Taillandy  and  Monsieur 
Silvestre  were  accustomed  to  take  their  evening 
meal  together  on  the  sidewalk  when  the  weather 
was  fine,  and  to  linger  over  it,  cracking  nuts  and 
nibbling  raisins,  until  the  cure  should  join  them 
for  the  coffee.  On  a  certain  evening  (it  was 
the  second  Sunday,  I  believe,  after  Taillandy's 
arrival  at  Evremont)  the  cure  was  wofully  late 
in  appearing. 

"I  wonder  what  it  is  that  holds  him?"  mused 
the  poet. 

"It  would  perhaps  be  that  old  housekeeper 
of  his — that  Amelie.  She  treats  him  like  a  child 
and  does  not  like  him  to  go  out  in  the  evenings. 
If  she  had  her  way  Monsieur  le  cure  would  be 
between  the  sheets  at  half  past  seven  every 
night.  That  is  solicitude  carried  to  excess. 
Sometimes  it  makes  me  glad  that  there  is  no 
one  to  care  for  me  to  such  an  extent." 

Taillandy  nodded  slowly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "we  men  want  to  be 
nursed  only  when  we  want  to  be  nursed.  But 
when  we  want  nursing  and  there  is  no  one  to  do 


166  THE   PAGAN 


it — ah,  then,  my  friend,  then  how  sorry  do  we 
feel  for  ourselves!" 

"I  take  it,"  observed  the  landlord  slyly,  "that 
you  contemplate  engaging  a  nurse." 

"You  have  wonderful  vision,"  returned  Tail- 
landy,  and  was  about  to  change  the  subject  when 
the  hurried  arrival  of  the  cure  saved  him  the 
trouble. 

Monsieur  le  cure  was  panting  and  distressed. 

"You  are  late,"  said  the  landlord,  "and  you 
are  out  of  breath.  Have  you  been  wrestling 
with  your  conscience — or  running  away  from  it, 
perhaps?" 

"Neither,"  replied  the  cure,  briefly;  "I  have 
been  searching  for  Felix  Romarin.  He  has 
been  missing  since  noon,  and  he  has  been  drunk 
since  last  night.  It  is  bad.  I  have  inquired 
for  him  at  every  house  in  Evremont." 

"Why  look  for  something  no  one  wishes  to 
find?"  demanded  Monsieur  Silvestre.  "We 
are  well  quit  of  him." 

"Hush,"  commanded  the  cure.  "Do  you 
not  know " 

"Oh,"  the  landlord  interrupted  airily,  "I 
know.  You  will  tell  me  about  the  sparrow  that 
falls  and  how  the  very  hairs  of  my  head  are 
numbered." 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  about  to  ask  you  if  you 
did  not  know  that  he  had  procured  for  himself 
a  revolver." 

"Ah,"    observed   Taillandy,    "that  becomes 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          167 

interesting.  And  what  does  he  think  to  do 
with  a  revolver?" 

The  cure  hesitated. 

"It  is  as  well  to  warn  you,"  he  said  at  length. 
"They  who  saw  him  last  tell  me  that  he  left  the 
Cafe  de  la  Victoire  very  drunk  at  noon  with 
his  revolver,  and  that  he  said  he  was  going 
hunting — for  big  game  !" 

Taillandy  raised  his  eyebrows,  sipped  his 
cognac,  replaced  the  glass  on  the  table,  and  lit 
a  cigarette. 

"Big  game,"  he  mused.  "That  would  be 
me — not?  Well,  he  has  been  very  slow  to  find 
his  big  game — and  very  blind.  I  flatter  myself 
I  have  been  much  in  evidence  since  noon." 

"Then,"  said  the  cure,  "I  beg  of  you  to  be 
less  in  evidence  this  evening.  I  am  serious,  my 
friend." 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Taillandy  enigmatically; 
"I  hope  so.  And  I,  also,  am  serious.  But  I 
shall  not  change  my  habits  merely  because 
Monsieur  Romarin  chooses  to  become  drunk; 
and  to  prove  that  I  shall  not  I  now  bid  you  all 
good-evening.  As  for  the  hunter  of  big  game 
— well,  you  remember  that  Actaeon  and  Adonis 
were  huntsmen  who  found  game  bigger  than 
they  expected — with  fatal  consequences  to  them 
both.  Messieurs,  bonsoir." 

He  picked  up  his  battered  hat,  thrust  it  care 
lessly  and  rakishly  on  his  head,  tossed  a  two- 
franc  piece  on  the  table,  and  departed.  They 


168  THE   PAGAN 


watched  him  cross  the  twilit  square  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  shop  of  Madame  Nicolas. 

"He  goes  to  walk  with  Diane?"  said  the 
cure,  interrogatively. 

"But  yes,"  responded  Monsieur  Silvestre. 
"It  is  their  custom  at  this  hour."  And  then 
he  added  with  a  sigh:  "It  is  the  lovers'  hour. 
I  remember  ..." 

"Naturally,"  interrupted  the  cure,  "we  all 
remember." 

They  fell  silent,  each  perhaps  remembering. 

Inside,  in  the  cafe,  a  waiter  commenced  to 
light  the  lamps,  for  it  was  growing  dark;  and 
presently  about  the  village  other  lights  glowed 
behind  square  windows.  Below  them,  as  the 
sun  slipped  down  behind  the  hills,  the  Seine 
changed  from  gold  to  silver.  Then  a  star  or 
two  stepped  into  the  sky  and  it  was  night. 

"I  am  uneasy,"  said  the  cure,  shivering  a 
little. 

"For  him?"  asked  Monsieur  Silvestre. 

"Yes;  for  him.  .  .  .  Listen!  Did  you 
hear  nothing?" 

"I  hear  only  the  tinkle  of  the  water  in  the 
trough  out  there,  and  the  splashing  of  the 
sparrows." 

"Nothing  more?" 

"The  wind  in  the  poplars." 

"It  is  well.  I  imagine  things.  I  am  over 
wrought." 

"You  had  better  sleep,"  advised  Monsieur 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          169 

Silvestre.  "I  will  walk  home  with  you  across 
the  square." 

"No,  not  yet  awhile,  my  friend.  I  should 
not  sleep.  It  is  better  that  I  stay  here  with 
you  for  a  time,  if  you  will  bear  with  me." 

"As  you  will.  For  me,  I  ask  nothing  better. 
Will  you  drink?" 

"No,  but  I  will  smoke.  It  will  quiet 
me. 


VII 

TAILLANDY  found  Diane  waiting  for  him  in 
the  doorway  of  the  shop.  She  was  in  white, 
with  a  hooded  cloak  over  her  shoulders.  Her 
face  was  pale  even  in  the  glow  of  the  dying 
sun,  but  there  was  gold  in  the  shadows  of  her 
hair. 

"I  am  late,"  said  the  pagan;  "the  cure  de 
tained  me." 

"Is  there  anything  wrong?"  she  inquired. 

He  hesitated;  then — "No,  nothing,"  he  re 
plied.  "Are  we  not  together?" 

They  followed  the  crooked  street  that  led  to 
the  river — a  street  that  soon  became  a  mere 
wagon  trail  across  the  meadows.  They  walked 
close  together,  and  presently  he  put  his  arm 
about  her  and  kissed  her,  with  only  the  first 
stars  to  witness  it. 

"In  that,"  he  said  gravely,  "are  all  my  vows. 
The  earth  and  the  sky  are  my  altar,  and  I 


170  THE   PAGAN 


pledge  myself  to  you  before  them.  To-mor 
row — or  when  you  will — for  your  sake  and  for 
the  sake  of  our  good  friend  the  cure,  I  will 
stand  before  your  altar  and  his  to  renew  this 
pledge.  Are  you  content,  my  Diane?" 

"You  are  good,"  she  answered,  "and  I  am 
yery  happy." 

"And  you  love  me?" 

She  smiled  at  him  quietly,  wistfully,  yearn 
ingly,  as  a  woman  smiles  when  she  knows  that 
all  her  words  are  inadequate. 

"You  know  I  do,"  she  said. 

"Forever?" 

"Forever  —  ever  and  forever,"  she  repeat 
ed.  ... 

They  came  to  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  he 
found  her  a  spot  beside  a  willow  where  they 
could  see  the  stars.  At  their  feet  the  Seine 
murmured  and  whispered,  flowing  silver  to 
Paris  and  the  sea.  About  them  hung  the  per 
fume  of  spring. 

For  a  long  time  they  talked  quietly  —  they 
knew  not  how  long,  whether  it  was  a  thousand 
ages  or  an  evening.  Then,  suddenly,  the  poet 
stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence. 

"What  was  that?"  he  asked. 

They  listened  intently. 

"It  is  some  one  walking  by  the  river,"  she 
said,  after  a  space. 

Again  they  listened.  They  heard  footsteps 
coming  along  the  path  that  bordered  the  Seine 
— unsteady  footsteps.  Perhaps  because  of  the 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          171 

darkness.  They  heard  a  crackling  of  under 
brush  and  an  oath.  Diane  gave  a  little  cry. 
Taillandy  stood  up,  long  and  lean  and  silent. 
She  also  stood  up,  but,  holding  her  hand,  he  put 
her  gently  behind  him. 

Out  of  the  shadows  by  the  path  and  into  a 
patch  of  starlight  came  a  grotesque  black  figure, 
lurching,  stumbling,  shaking  his  fists  at  the 
stars.  When  he  was  within  twenty  yards  of 
them  he  stopped,  his  eye  arrested  by  the  splash 
of  white  that  was  Diane's  dress.  He  straight 
ened  himself  with  an  effort  and  regarded  them 
for  long,  silent  minutes.  Then,  slowly  and  with 
caution,  he  advanced. 

"What  do  you  want?"  demanded  Taillandy 
sharply. 

"That  which  I  have  found,"  was  the  answer. 
"I  am  in  luck.  It  is  Diane  and  her  lover.  To 
night,  Monsieur  Taillandy,  I  am  up  and  you 
are  down.  Do  you  not  remember  that  I  warned 
you?" 

"You  had  better  go  home  and  get  to  bed," 
advised  the  poet. 

Felix  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"It  is  you  who  are  going  home,"  he  an 
swered,  "and  your  bed  will  be  deep." 

He  made  a  quick  motion  with  his  right  arm; 
there  was  a  sharp  report  of  a  revolver — not 
overloud;  there  was  a  little  cloud  of  smoke 
swaying  in  front  of  Romarin's  face;  there 
was  the  bitter  smell  of  powder  poisoning  the 
air. 


172  THE   PAGAN 


Diane  caught  Taillandy  in  her  arms,  stag 
gered  under  the  weight  of  him,  and  then  fell 
with  him  to  the  ground. 


VIII 

"HusH !"  cried  the  cure.    "What  was  that?" 

"A  shot,"  answered  Monsieur  Silvestre, 
"down  by  the  river.  Come!  Can  you  run?" 

But  the  cure  was  half-way  across  the  square. 
Monsieur  Silvestre,  more  corpulent,  panted 
after  him. 

When  they  reached  the  river  they  heard 
Diane's  voice  calling  for  help.  The  cure,  who 
still  led  the  race,  his  skirts  flapping  about  his 
ankles,  turned  as  he  ran  and  shouted:  "Faster, 
my  friend!  Diane  does  not  cry  for  nothing." 

"Name  of  God,"  answered  the  landlord,  "is 
it  not  I  who  know  it?"  and  he  redoubled  his 
efforts  with  such  effect  that  he  drew  abreast  of 
the  priest. 

Together,  then,  they  came  upon  the  little 
group  beside  the  willows.  Taillandy  lay  mo 
tionless  on  the  ground,  his  long  limbs  relaxed, 
his  head  pillowed  on  Diane's  breast.  Felix 
stood  over  them  with  arms  folded  across  his 
chest  and  the  revolver  still  in  his  right  hand. 
He  said  nothing,  but  swayed  slightly  from  side 
to  side,  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

When  Diane  recognized  the  cure  she  said: 
"Mow  pere,  tell  me  that  he  yet  lives." 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          173 

The  cure  knelt  beside  her  and  laid  his  hand 
on  Taillandy's  breast,  over  his  heart.  The 
hand  came  away  wet  and  stained  darkly,  and 
the  cure  shuddered. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  "he  still  lives.1' 

Then  he  turned  to  Monsieur  Silvestre. 

"Take  that  devil's  weapon  away  from  Felix," 
he  commanded,  "before  he  does  more  harm 
with  it." 

At  mention  of  his  name  Felix  spoke  for  the 
first  time. 

"I  found  her  with  her  lover,"  he  whimpered 
— "I  found  her  with  her  lover,  and  so  I  killed 
him." 

Monsieur  Silvestre,  growling  with  fury, 
leaped  on  him.  He  wrested  the  revolver  from 
his  fingers  and  struck  him  across  the  mouth 
with  his  open  hand. 

"That  is  enough  from  you !"  he  cried. 

But  Felix,  impassive  under  the  blow,  merely 
repeated :  "I  found  her  with  her  lover,  and  so 
I  killed  him." 

"Come,"  said  the  cure,  "pay  no  more  heed 
for  the  present,  Monsieur  Silvestre.  We  must 
get  Ferdinand  back  to  the  village." 

They  were  about  to  lift  him,  the  cure  at  his 
head,  the  landlord  at  his  feet,  when  Taillandy 
opened  his  eyes  and  motioned  them  to  desist. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  his 
twisted  smile,  "I  know.  You  are  very  good. 
But  let  me  lie  here  for  a  while.  It  will  not 
be  long,  and  here  I  have  everything  and  every 


174  THE   PAGAN 


one  about  me  that  I  love.  .  .  .  Even  that 
poor  Felix,  whom  I  do  not  hate." 

uWe  will  attend  to  him,"  promised  Monsieur 
Silvestre. 

"Attend,  rather,  to  the  absinthe,"  said  the 
pagan  vaguely,  "and  to  the  hot  blood  of  the 
south."  With  that  he  seemed  to  dismiss  the 
matter  from  his  mind,  and,  turning  his  face  to 
Diane,  he  said:  "Kiss  me  well,  my  little  Diane, 
my  Moon-Goddess,  my  slim  Huntress — kiss  me 
well.  Give  me  strength  from  your  lips  to  climb 
Olympus  alone.  You  remember,  I  told  you  it 
was  a  hard  climb — a  hard  climb  even  when  two 
go  together." 

She  bent  her  head  to  kiss  him.  Monsieur 
Silvestre  turned  away,  sobbing  and  groaning: 
"Now  where  is  your  God  of  pity!"  he  cried; 
"where  is  your  God  of  love !  Show  me  now  a 
miracle  and  I  will  believe!"  The  cure  still 
knelt  quietly  by  the  poet's  side;  Felix  stood 
above  them,  motionless,  dazed. 

"My  love,"  whispered  Diane,  "if  you  want 
me  with  you  to  climb  the  mountain  I  am  ready. 
And  I  am  eager  to  start.  Felix  should  have 
another  bullet " 

"Hush,"  he  interrupted  her.  "You  will 
come  when  the  gods  will  it.  And  I,  going 
ahead,  will  leave  signs  by  the  roadside  to  guide 
you.  It  is  better  so.  ...  Listen!  Do  you 
not  hear  the  naiads  singing  in  the  river — or  is 
it  the  stars,  perhaps,  that  sing?  Surely  I  hear 
it.  It  grows  louder — there  is  in  my  ears  a  great 


THE   END    OF    THE   ROAD          175 

surge  of  song  —  and  a  clashing  of  cymbals. 
Take  my  hand,  Diane.  .  .  .  Look,  Monsieur 
le  cure  is  praying  for  me — praying  to  his  God. 
That  is  kind  of  him,  Diane.  May  your  God 
bless  you,  Monsieur  le  cure !  You  and  I — we 
are  both  right,  for  Something  put  all  those  stars 
in  the  heavens.  Is  it  not  true?" 

The  cure's  eyes  glowed  with  happiness  as  he 
answered:  "The  God  of  gods  and  the  Light  of 
light — what  matters  the  name?"  And  he  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  on  Taillandy's  forehead 
and  breast. 

The  poet  smiled  weakly. 

"What  matters  the  name,"  he  repeated,  "so 
long  as  the  name  be  Love?" 

He  closed  his  eyes,  the  smile  still  at  his  lips. 
And,  with  the  smile  still  at  his  lips,  he  went  out, 
alone,  to  his  wandering. 


TROPIC    MADNESS 


TROPIC    MADNESS 


THAT  Andrew  Farley  took  himself  very 
seriously  at  the  age  of  twenty-six  could  not  be 
blamed  on  his  liberal  education  at  Harvard  or 
on  his  four  years'  postgraduate  experience  in  a 
broker's  office  in  Wall  Street;  for  neither  Har 
vard  nor  Wall  Street,  estimable  institutions 
though  they  be,  tend  to  encourage  over  intro 
spection.  Indeed,  Andrew  had  been  surround 
ed  ever  since  he  could  remember  by  cheerfully 
idiotic  friends  who  cultivated  their  muscles  at 
the  expense  of  their  minds,  and  who  scornfully 
ignored  their  souls.  But  Andrew  was  very 
much  interested  in  his  soul,  and,  to  do  him  jus 
tice,  in  other  people's  souls.  Psychology,  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  word,  was  to  him  a  study 
of  never  -  ceasing  importance  and  fascination : 
he  specialized  in  it  at  Harvard  and  he  tried, 
with  little  success,  to  pursue  it  in  Wall  Street. 
Actions  and  their  motives,  reactions  and  their 
connotations,  life  and  its  vast,  complex  meaning, 
the  ideal  relation  of  the  sexes  and  how  it  should 
be  brought  about,  man's  duty  to  the  world  and 
the  world's  duty  to  man — all  these  were  things 
the  pondering  of  which  occupied  Andrew  Far- 
179 


180  TROPIC  MADNESS 

ley's  mind  at  the  expense  of  intercollegiate 
athletics  and  the  vagaries  of  the  stock-market. 

Accordingly,  every  one  was  surprised  when 
Andrew's  engagement  to  Marcella  Maynard 
was  announced,  and  no  one  was  surprised  when 
Andrew's  engagement  to  Marcella  Maynard 
was  broken.  Marcella,  you  see,  was  very  super 
ficial — at  least,  people  who  were  very  super 
ficial  said  so — and  Andrew  was  known  to  be 
very  fundamental.  Marcella  had  never  read 
Darwin  or  Huxley  or  Ruskin  or  Bergson,  with 
all  of  whom  Andrew  was  thoroughly  conversant 
and  about  whom — why  deny  it? — he  was  per 
haps  too  thoroughly  conversational.  Then, 
too,  Marcella  "went  out  a  great  deal  in  so 
ciety,"  and  Andrew  had  long  ago  convinced 
himself  that  society,  so  called,  tended  to  dwarf 
the  soul  and  was,  therefore,  beneath  contempt. 
With  fine  scorn  and  finer  alliteration  he  had 
denounced  society's  polite  conversation  as  the 
"vapid  vaporings  of  illiterate  imbeciles/'  Give 
him,  rather,  he  protested,  the  heart-searing  dis 
course  of  a  Polish  Jew  or  the  imprisoned  fire 
in  the  words  of  an  Italian  laborer  digging  in  a 
sewer.  True,  he  understood  neither  Polish 
nor  Italian,  but  he  thought  it  unnecessary  to 
mar  the  effect  of  his  rhetoric  by  pointing  out 
this  deficiency. 

Marcella — I  knew  her  well — was  a  delight 
ful  girl  in  spite  of  her  fondness  for  superficial 
pleasures.  She  was  essentially  feminine.  I  al 
ways  admired  her  because  she  played  such  a 


TROPIC   MADNESS  181 

ludicrously  bad  game  of  tennis  and  was  com 
pletely  at  a  loss  on  a  golf-links.  There  are  a 
hundred  things  I  could  say  in  her  favor  that 
Andrew  doubtless  counted  against  her,  and  the 
greatest  of  these  was  that  she  was  scarcely  edu 
cated — that  is,  she  spelled  abominably  and  mis 
used  all  words  of  more  than  three  syllables  and 
many  of  less.  In  addition  to  this  she  was  pas 
sionately  fond  of  jewelry  and  clothes  and  flow 
ers  and  candy,  all  of  which  Andrew  classed  with 
the  pomps  and  vanities  of  this  wicked  world. 
So  you  see  there  was  no  possible  chance  of  their 
hitting  it  off  together  so  long  as  Andrew  re 
mained  Andrew  and  Marcella  remained  Mar- 
cella. 

Andrew  showed  me,  years  afterward,  the 
note  that  she  wrote  to  him,  breaking  the  engage 
ment. 

"Dear  Andrew," — she  began,  very  primly — 
uafter  our  conversation  last  night  I  have  decid 
ed  that  it  will  never  do  for  us  to  get  married. 
I  am  far  too  frivilous  I'm  afraid — and  I  can't 
bear  to  give  up  all  those  lovely  things  that  you 
object  to  so  much  —  and  I  just  won't  take  a 
course  of  reading  or  go  to  stuffy  lectures  at 
Barnard.  I  know  as  much  as  any  girl  I  know 
and  woman's  sphere  is  not  in  the  library  but 
in  the  home  after  all  isn't  it!!  Of  course  I 
admire  you  very  much  and  all  that  but  I  can't 
keep  up  pretending  to  be  serious  like  you  all 
my  life.  I  like  to  laugh  at  things  and  I  think 


182  TROPIC   MADNESS 

it's  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry  always.  If  you 
want  what  you  call  a  companion  that  is  your 
equal  in  mentality  I  won't  do  because  I  am  no 
Socrates  or  whatever  that  old  Roman's  name 
was — and  I  will  never  be  one.  So  Andrew  I'm 
afraid  it  is  all  over  between  us.  I'm  very  sorry 
but  it  is  better  to  have  found  out  in  time — isn't 
it!!  Better  for  both  of  us  I  mean.  I  will  al 
ways  think  very  kindly  of  you  and  am  return 
ing  your  gifts  except  the  candy  which  is  eaten. 
With  best  wishes  for  your  future,  I  remain, 
"Yours  very  truly, 
"MARCELLA  MAYNARD." 

The  receipt  of  that  letter  put  Andrew  into  a 
state  of  mind  that  interested  him  exceedingly. 
He  discovered  that  he  was  not  at  all  heart 
broken — if  anything  had  been  hurt  it  was,  per 
haps,  his  pride.  The  letter  was  so  calm,  so 
casual — as  if  the  girl  herself  were  not  heart 
broken  either.  It  annoyed  him  that  a  person 
could  put  him,  Andrew  Farley,  out  of  her  life 
so  ruthlessly,  and  he  reflected  that  she  would 
have  hesitated  longer  had  it  been  a  question  of 
getting  rid  of  her  Pekingese.  On  maturer  de 
liberation  this  seemed  to  prove  incontestably 
that  she  was  incapable  of  appreciating  him, 
incapable  of  grasping  his  true  worth.  Ah,  yes, 
he  needed  a  subtler  intellect  to  mate  with  his, 
he  needed  some  one  who  moved  in  a  rarer, 
more  sublimated  atmosphere. 

And  so,  with  absolutely  no  idea  of  finding 


TROPIC   MADNESS  183 

such  a  person,  he  packed  a  trunk  and  boarded 
a  ship  for  the  West  Indies.  Marcella  went  to 
Palm  Beach. 

II 

IN  the  West  Indies  Andrew  was  offered 
many  opportunities  for  studying  the  soul  in  its 
primitive  state,  but,  somehow  or  other,  primi 
tive  souls  seemed  to  lack  a  certain  vital  in 
terest  that  civilized  souls  indubitably  possessed. 
Primitive  souls  provided  merely  elementary 
study,  and  Andrew  felt  quite  rightly  that  he  had 
passed,  so  to  speak,  beyond  the  First  Reader 
and  souls  of  one  syllable.  He  flattered  him 
self  that  he  thoroughly  understood  the  simpler 
passions — love,  hate,  jealousy,  avarice — and, 
in  the  tropics,  life  was  apparently  actuated  by 
nothing  more  complex  than  these.  Then,  to 
add  to  his  discouragement,  he  found  that  he, 
who  had  always  scoffed  at  physical  attractions, 
was  sensibly  repelled  by  the  lack  of  physical 
attractions  evidenced  in  the  people  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact.  The  West  Indian  sky  was 
very  blue,  the  Caribbean  was  crystal-clear  and 
as  purple  as  a  colored  postal  card  of  it,  the 
palms  were  very  green,  but — well,  the  West 
Indians  were  not  very  white.  There  were  times 
when  he  remembered,  with  a  pang,  how  white 
Marcella  was — how  white  and  how  cool.  And 
the  scent  that  she  used  that  suggested  lilies  of 
the  valley. 

He  engaged  passage  on  a  dingy,  reeking  little 


184  TROPIC   MADNESS 

steamer,  and  spent  three  weeks  among  the 
Windward  Islands.  Mid-February  found  him 
at  Saint  Thomas,  and  at  Saint  Thomas  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  stand  on  the  quay  and  watch 
the  dingy,  reeking  little  steamer  sail  out  of  the 
harbor  without  him.  He  had  delayed  too  long 
in  a  shop  buying  himself  a  panama. 

Now  Saint  Thomas  is  a  brilliant  green  island, 
planted  in  the  middle  of  a  wide  expanse  of 
happy  blue.  It  is  a  warm,  lush  green — a  green 
that  soothes  and  entices,  and  insidiously  saps 
one's  ambition,  like  the  taste  of  the  lotos  or  the 
perfume  of  the  poppy. 

Doubtless  it  was  due  to  this  narcotic  green, 
then,  that  Andrew  felt  few  regrets  as  he  stood 
on  the  quay  and  watched  his  steamer  trail  a 
line  of  white  foam  across  the  harbor.  Instead, 
he  found  that  he  was  quite  content  to  remain 
where  he  was,  and  not  for  anything  would  he 
have  shouted  or  signalled  in  an  attempt  to  at 
tract  the  little  vessel's  attention  to  its  marooned 
passenger. 

A  score  of  sympathetic  natives,  black  as  any 
spade  in  the  pack,  surrounded  him,  vouchsafing 
suggestions,  and  two  cabbies  repeated  continu 
ously  in  a  monotone  the  phrase :  uKeb,  sir — 
want  a  keb,  sir?" 

At  length,  one  of  them,  an  old  negro  in  a 
battered  silk  hat,  approached  him  and  said  very 
politely: 

"I  tike  you  drive,  m'lord? — tike  you  nice 
drive." 


TROPIC   MADNESS  185 

Andrew  studied  him  at  great  leisure. 

"Where  did  you  learn  your  English?"  he 
asked. 

"I  speak  good  English,"  answered  the  cabby. 
"I  speak  English  on  bloomin'  Danish  island," 
and  he  pointed  to  the  Danish  flag  flying  from 
the  governor's  "palace." 

The  gesture  gave  Andrew  an  inspiration. 

"Drive  me,"  he  said,  "to  the  palace.  I  will 
call  on  the  governor." 

"Not  at  'ome,"  responded  the  negro  prompt 
ly.  "He  tike  vacation — aweye.  I  tike  you  see 
Mr.  Jumley." 

"Mr.  who?"  inquired  Andrew. 

"Mr.  Jumley.  'E's  English.  Very  rich 
man,  m'lord.  Bloomin'  big  house.  Damn  fine 
garden,  too.  My  eye !  I  tike  you  see  Mr. 
Jumley,  m'lord." 

"Very  well,"  answered  Andrew,  "take  me  to 
see  Mr.  Jumley." 

He  climbed  into  the  decrepit  little  barouche 
and,  drawn  by  a  decrepit  little  horse,  they 
rattled  away  over  the  clean  cobblestones  of  the 
square. 

There  is  but  one  level  road  on  Saint  Thomas 
— a  road  that  skirts  the  harbor  and  the  sea. 
The  others  clamber  inland  and  skyward,  up 
precipitous  slopes,  often  with  the  aid  of  stone 
steps,  and  lead  to  nowhere — for  the  town  and 
harbor  of  Charlotte-Amalia  is  about  all  there 
is  to  Saint  Thomas,  at  least  so  far  as  population 
is  concerned. 


186  TROPIC   MADNESS 

The  driver,  fortunately  for  the  health  of  his 
horse  and  the  springs  of  the  barouche  and  the 
comfort  of  his  passenger,  stayed  by  the  shore 
road,  and  during  the  fifteen-minute  excursion 
gave  utterance  to  his  thoughts  in  a  never-ceas 
ing  monologue. 

"Mr.  Jumley  makes  choice  rum  and  other 
fine  sippings,"  said  he.  "My  eye,  that's  why 
'e's  so  bloomin'  rich  man.  Wot  with  tropic, 
excessive  'eat,  and  so  much  dust,  we  all  is  ex 
cessive  thirsty.  My  eye!" 

"I  understand,"  said  Andrew. 

"Yes,  m'lord,  you  understand;  but  Mr.  Jum 
ley,  'e  don't  understand.  Why? — because  'e 
cawn't.  'E's  drunk  too  much  long  sippings  of 
'is  own  rum — that's  wot  /  seye,  and  'e's  balmy, 
my  eye !" 

"How  unfortunate !"  commented  Andrew. 
"Why,  then,  do  you  take  me  to  see  a  crazy 
man?" 

"Oh,  ho!"  laughed  the  driver.  "Mr.  Jum 
ley  likes  all  new  strangers  to  stay  long  time  with 
'im.  'Is  'ouse  much  better  than  the  bloomin' 
'otel.  Besides,  'is  daughter,  Miss  Jumley,  she's 
not  balmy.  Oh,  no,  she's  not  'arf  balmy.  .  .  . 
My  eye !" 

The  driver,  at  this,  turned  around  so  that 
Andrew  could  see  the  ecstatic  grin  on  his  black 
face. 

"Miss  Jumley,"  he  continued,  "reads  books 
all  daytime  and  Mr.  Jumley  he  drink  rum  all 
night-time.  Bloomin'  appy  family,  I  calls  it." 


TROPIC   MADNESS  187 

Andrew,  mystified  and  not  a  little  disgusted, 
forbore  to  question  the  driver  further,  and 
presently  they  drew  up  in  front  of  an  iron  gate, 
beside  which,  in  gilt  letters  on  a  marble  plaque, 
was  the  inscription  "Mon  Repos."  Strange 
anomaly — an  Englishman  owning  a  villa  with 
a  French  name  on  a  Danish  island ! 

With  many  misgivings  Andrew  pushed  open 
the  gate  and  followed  the  straight  path  up  to 
the  door  of  a  large,  square,  white-stone,  red- 
roofed  house,  far  more  pretentious  than  any  he 
had  hitherto  seen  in  Saint  Thomas. 

A  cafe-au-lait  man  servant  answered  his  ring 
at  the  bell  and,  without  inquiring  his  business 
or  his  name,  opened  the  door  wide  and  stood 
aside,  bowing  and  grinning,  to  let  him  pass. 

"Mr.  Jumley?"  ventured  Andrew. 

"'E's  in  bed,"  answered  the  man.  "But 
Miss  Jumley' s  in  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the 


'ouse." 


Thereupon  he  led  the  way  across  the  stone- 
paved  hall,  through  a  court  where  a  fountain 
splashed  coolly  under  palms,  to  a  broad  terrace 
that  overlooked  the  sea  and  that  gave  access 
by  means  of  a  twisting  flight  of  steps  to  the 
garden. 

At  this  point  the  servant  indicated  with  a 
brown  finger  a  sort  of  summer-house,  built  of 
green  lattice  and  covered  with  vines,  and  he 
said: 

"Miss  Jumley  always  in  there  with  'er  big 
books." 


188  TROPIC   MADNESS 

Then  he  turned  and,  leaving  Andrew  hesitat 
ing  on  the  terrace,  re-entered  the  house. 

"This,"  said  Andrew  to  himself,  uis  very 
nearly  an  adventure.  The  Mystery  of  the  Girl 
behind  the  Green  Lattice." 

He  descended  the  steps  and,  passing  down 
an  alley  of  palms,  reached  the  summer-house, 
which  was  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  garden, 
separated  only  by  a  low  parapet  from  the  sea. 

In  a  comfortable-looking  wicker  chair,  with 
books  piled  on  the  ground  at  her  feet  and  a  fat 
volume  of  Miinsterberg  in  her  hand,  sat  Miss 
Jumley. 

Much  as  I  should  like  to,  I  am  afraid  that 
I  cannot  describe  her  as  beautiful.  According 
to  all  precedent,  of  course,  a  girl  that  sits  in  a 
green  lattice  summer-house  on  a  tropical  island 
should  be  very  beautiful  indeed,  and  dark,  with 
a  skin  the  color  of  old  ivory.  And  she  should 
have  large,  black  eyes,  like  unfathomable  wells. 
But  this  is  a  realistic  story. 

Miss  Jumley  was  tall,  angular,  and  flat — 
facts  which  her  flowing,  tunic-like  gown  empha 
sized  rather  than  concealed.  Having  said  that, 
I  have  told  you  the  worst,  for  she  had  several 
good  points  which  are  strictly  compatible  with 
height,  angularity,  and  flatness.  Her  hands, 
for  instance — long  and  slim,  with  sensitive  fin 
gers — and  her  feet,  shapely  in  their  sandals. 
Yes,  she  wore  sandals.  Her  hair  was  positively 
beautiful;  that  deep  reddish-brown  hair,  the 
color  of  russet  shoes  that  have  been  much  pol- 


TROPIC   MADNESS  189 

ished,  and  to  Andrew's  uninitiated  eye  it  seemed 
that  she  had  a  great  deal  of  this  hair.  Her 
skin,  while  not  quite  so  good  as  her  hair,  was 
welcomely  white  in  contrast  to  the  duskiness 
that  Andrew  had  encountered  during  the  last 
month,  and  her  lips,  slightly  rouged  perhaps, 
emphasized  its  whiteness.  As  for  her  eyes — 
well,  it  is  hard  to  describe  her  eyes.  They  were 
not  black,  nor  were  they  large,  unfathomable 
wells.  They  were  green  and  rather  small,  but 
very  intense.  She  seemed  to  concentrate  the 
expression  of  her  moods  in  her  eyes,  leaving 
the  rest  of  her  face  immobile.  Later  she  ad 
mitted  to  Andrew  that  she  had  difficulty  in  keep 
ing  her  soul  out  of  her  eyes — that  they  spoke 
when  her  lips  were  silent.  Andrew  thought 
that  charming,  and  on  the  few  occasions  when 
she  was  silent  he  was  convinced  that  her  eyes 
were  uttering  great  thoughts. 

At  sight  of  Andrew,  standing  with  his  new 
panama  in  his  hand,  she  marked  her  place  care 
fully  in  her  book,  put  the  book  aside,  and  raised 
slow,  inquiring  eyes  to  his. 

"Miss  Jumley?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  languidly,  "I  am  she. 
Will  you  come  in  and  sit  down?  My  name  is 
spelt  Cholmondeley,  however — if  that  is  of  the 
least  interest." 

"Ah,"  said  Andrew.  "Ah,  yes — of  course,1* 
and  found  nothing  more  to  add. 

"Are  you  stopping  long  with  us?"  she  in 
quired. 


190  TROPIC   MADNESS 

Andrew  said  that  he  didn't  know,  that  she 
was  very  kind  to  take  him  in — him,  an  utter 
stranger,  that  he  felt  very  bold  and  that  he 
would  never  have  intruded  on  them  so  brazenly 
had  he  not  missed  his  steamer.  Then,  to  sum 
up,  he  laid  all  the  blame  on  the  driver  who,  he 
said,  had  insisted  on  driving  him  out  to  the 
Cholmondeley  villa. 

She  stopped  him  with  a  wave  of  her  hand — 
a  graceful  gesture  that  she  often  employed. 

"Don't  apologize,"  she  urged.  "Apologies 
are  so  dull  and  so  useless.  My  father  and  I 
are  always  glad  to  entertain  any  visitor  to  Char- 
lotte-Amalia.  We  only  regret  that  we  have  so 
few  to  entertain.  It  is  often  lonely  here  in 
Saint  Thomas.  Of  course,  as  for  me,  I  have 
my  books — ah,  yes,  my  good  friends  the  books. 
I  spend  hours  conversing  with  Darwin  and 
Voltaire  and  Goethe  and  my  dear,  dear  friend 
Carlyle.  But  poor  father — he  lacks  that  great 
est  of  consolations :  the  capacity  to  enjoy  the 
printed  word,  the  indescribable  communion  of 
author  and  reader,  the  opportunity  to  visualize 
a  man's  soul  with  never  a  glimpse  of  the  man's 
doubtless  repellent  body." 

Andrew's  face  lighted  up  with  eager  interest. 
Here,  surely,  was  a  woman  who  understood, 
or  who  at  least  craved  to  understand  the  great 
things  in  life,  who  was  on  intimate  terms  with 
the  great  thinkers  of  world  history.  Here  was 
a  woman,  at  last,  who  preferred  Carlyle  to  the 
fox-trot. 


TROPIC   MADNESS  191 

He  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  ground  at  her 
feet  and  commenced  respectfully  to  finger  the 
books  that  lay  beside  her.  Many  of  his  favor 
ites  were  among  them — Darwin,  Kant,  Hume, 
Nietzsche,  William  James,  Miinsterberg,  and, 
for  relaxation,  Strindberg,  Ibsen,  Sudermann, 
Dostoievsky,  Romain  Holland — a  grim  collec 
tion,  full  of  meat  but,  for  the  most  part,  void 
of  humor. 

"Your  taste  in  literature,"  observed  Andrew, 
"is  singularly  akin  to  mine."  He  had  adopted 
instinctively  that  preciseness,  almost  precious- 
ness  of  speech  that  had  always  irritated  Mar- 
cella  Maynard.  "Philosophy,"  he  continued — 
"philosophy,  the  study  of  causes  and  results,  of 
powers  and  of  laws;  and  psychology,  the  study 
of  the  mind  and  the  soul!  The  knowledge  of 
those — ah,  there  is  a  star  to  which  to  hitch  one's 
wagon!" 

Miss  Cholmondeley  threw  back  her  head 
with  a  sigh  of  rapture. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  one  of  us." 

Andrew  thought,  then,  that  she  was  very 
beautiful. 

"We,"  she  went  on,  "whose  thoughts  delve 
beneath  the  surface  of  things,  who  strive  to 
plumb  depths  hitherto  unplumbed,  must,  in  self- 
defense,  stand  by  one  another,  an  eager-eyed 
band,  united  against  the  scoffing  ignorance  of 
the  superficial  world.  And  we  must  console 
ourselves  with  the  thought  that  we  are  the  van 
guard  of  the  Army  of  Light.  'Light,  or,  fail- 


192  TROPIC   MADNESS 

ing  that,  lightning  —  the  world  can  take  its 
choice.'  " 

"Ah,"  murmured  Andrew  ecstatically  — 
"Carlyle!" 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  and  relapsed  into  pleased, 
complacent  silence,  like  an  orator  whose  little 
set  speech  is  done  and  well  done. 

A  warm  admiration  of  her  entered  into  An 
drew's  heart.  He  visioned  them,  working  to 
gether,  seeking  the  light  hand  in  hand,  sharing 
each  other's  brain-throbs  and  soul-throbs,  and, 
yes,  perhaps  later,  when  their  brains  and  souls 
should  be  as  one,  sharing  each  other's  heart 
throbs,  too.  The  sun,  just  then,  shone  very 
brightly  on  Saint  Thomas  Island. 

His  pleasant  musings  were  interrupted  by  a 
succession  of  muffled  shots,  scarcely  loud  enough 
to  emanate  from  a  man's-size  gun,  but  remind 
ing  Andrew  of  the  report  of  an  air-rifle  that  in 
his  more  frivolous  youth  he  had  possessed  and 
functioned.  He  was  a  little  alarmed. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  quickly. 

Miss  Cholmondeley,  however,  betraying  not 
the  slightest  agitation,  answered:  "I  imagine 
that  would  be  father  shooting  land-crabs," 

"Shooting  what?'9 

"Land-crabs,"  she  repeated.  "They  are  a 
great  nuisance,  and  they  positively  infest  the 
garden.  Their  numbers  never  seem  to  grow 
less — but  then,  father  isn't  a  very  good  shot. 
Perhaps  I  had  better  take  you  and  introduce 
you  to  father.  You'll  have  to  meet  him  sooner 


TROPIC  MADNESS 193 

or  later,  in  any  case,  and  it  is  better,  I  think,  to 
meet  him  early  in  the  day  when  he  is  apt  to  be 
quite  sober." 

Andrew  could  not  restrain  a  gasp.  At  first 
he  thought  that  he  must  have  misunderstood, 
but  no  —  Miss  Cholmondeley  enunciated  very 
distinctly.  Then,  for  a  brief  moment,  the  sus 
picion  came  to  him  that  he  had  found  his  way 
to  a  mad-house;  but  this  explanation,  too,  he 
abandoned.  Finally  he  concluded  that  Miss 
Cholmondeley  possessed  so  great  a  soul  that 
she  was  able  to  rise  above  being  ashamed  of  a 
father  who  was  "apt  to  be  quite  sober  early  in 
the  day,"  and  whose  favorite  outdoor  recrea 
tion  was  hunting  land-crabs  with  an  air-rifle. 

"She  is  a  wonderful  woman,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  as  he  followed  her  across  the  garden. 

They  made  their  way  in  the  direction  of  the 
firing,  the  reports  coming  at  intervals  of  about 
fifteen  seconds,  and  serving  as  excellent  guides. 

At  length  Miss  Cholmondeley  motioned  An 
drew  to  stop,  and,  with  a  finger  at  her  lips,  com 
manded  absolute  silence.  Crouching  behind  a 
bamboo-tree,  sighting  a  diminutive  air-rifle,  was 
a  man  in  a  white  pongee  suit — a  little,  thin, 
elderly  man,  with  a  bright-red  face  and  a  bald 
head  and  a  beak  of  a  nose.  He  was  actively 
engaged  in  loading  and  firing  his  air-rifle,  but 
Andrew  could  not  make  out  what  the  target 
was  at  which  he  aimed.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Andrew  was  not  sure  that  he  should  recognize 
a  land-crab  if  he  saw  one. 


194  TROPIC  MADNESS 

"That  would  be  nine  of  the  beggars,"  mut 
tered  Mr.  Cholmonleley. 

"Don't  you  think,  father,  that  that  is  enough 
for  the  morning,"  observed  Miss  Cholmonde- 
ley.  "Besides,  we  have  a  guest  to-day,  whom 
you  must  meet.  My  father  —  Mr.  Andrew 
Farley." 

The  little  old  man  put  down  his  air-rifle  re 
luctantly  and,  rising,  came  over  and  shook 
Andrew's  hand. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  he  said  shyly,  like  an  em 
barrassed  schoolboy.  "I  hope  you'll  stop  with 
us  a  long  time.  Are  you  fond  of  shooting? 
I  just  bagged  nine  this  morning — excellent 
sport." 

"I'm  sure  it  must  be,"  said  Andrew.  "Are 
— are  they  hard  to  hit?" 

"Oh,  no — not  very,"  Mr.  Cholmondeley  an 
swered  eagerly.  "The  little  beggars  pop  back 
into  their  bloomin'  holes  very  fast,  though,  if 
you  startle  'em  in  any  way.  All  it  needs  is  a 
quick  eye  and  great  caution  —  great  caution. 
Try  a  shot,  if  you  like." 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Andrew.  "I'm  not  any 
good  with  a  gun.  Perhaps  later " 

"Of  course,  of  course.  Just  as  you  please." 
Mr.  Cholmondeley  appeared  wofully  disap 
pointed.  But  presently,  brightening  up,  he 
whispered  in  Andrew's  ear:  "Would  you  like 
a  little  something  to  drink?  The  dust  and  the 
heat  and  all  that " 

Once  more  Andrew  declined. 


TROPIC  MADNESS  195 

"Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Cholmondeley  re 
gretfully,  "if  you  don't  mind  I  think  I'll  try  to 
make  it  a  round  dozen  for  the  morning.  Three 
more  of  the  little  beggars — just  three  more. 
Make  yourself  quite  at  home,  won't  you,  Mr. 
Farley?  Psyche,  you'll  look  after  Mr.  Farley, 
I  hope." 

The  girl  smiled  gravely. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Farley  and 
I  have  a  great  deal  in  common." 

"Good  enough,  good  enough,"  approved  the 
little  man.  "Stop  a  long  time  with  us  Mr. 
Farley.  I  am  glad  that  my  daughter  likes  you. 
Psyche  is  an  excellent  judge — excellent.  I  hope 
you  like  her,  too.  She's  a  wonderful  girl — my 
daughter  by  my  first  wife,  who  was  a  wonderful 
woman.  I  always  had  a  great  admiration  for 
my  first  wife — perhaps  because  she  was  my  first. 
You  see,  I've  had  three  and  familiarity  breeds 
contempt.  I  can't  say  I  cared  much  for  the 
last  two,  and  I'm  sure  they  didn't  care  much 
for  me,  because  they  seemed  very  happy  when 
they  died.  Well,  well — run  along  now,  I  must 
get  to  work.  And,  Mr.  Farley" — here  once 
more  he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper — "if 
you  get  thirsty  before  luncheon,  with  the  dust 
and  the  heat,  I  mix  a  very  good  green  swizzle. 
Don't  forget.  Good-by." 

Leaving  Mr.  Cholmondeley  to  complete  his 
morning's  work,  they  strolled  down  to  the  sea 
wall  and  sat  side  by  side  upon  it,  dangling  their 
legs  over  the  edge. 


196  TROPIC  MADNESS 

"Do  you  like  the  sea?"  demanded  Psyche. 
"Are  you  in  tune  with  its  moods?" 

"I  worship  the  sea!"  exclaimed  Andrew  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Ah,"  she  answered — "that  is  nice  of  you." 
And  then  she  added :  "Yes,  Mr.  Farley,  I  think 
we  have  much  in  common." 

She  leaned  back,  plucked  a  scarlet  poppy, 
and  twirled  it  idly  against  her  lips.  The  action 
was  effective. 

"I  think,"  he  cried,  "that  you  are  the  most 
wonderful  woman  I  have  ever  met!  You  are 
exotic,  oriental — no,  not  oriental — Slav.  That's 
it— Slav!" 

"Thank  you,"  said  she.  "I  like  to  be  told 
that,  because  it  is  always  very  hard  for  me  to 
forget  that  I  am  English.  Ugh!" — she  shiv 
ered  a  little — "those  cold-blooded,  physical 
English !  They  are  all  body  and  no  mind." 

"Like  the  Americans,"  he  added,  thinking 
perhaps  of  Marcella  Maynard. 

And  so,  until  luncheon-time,  she  derided  the 
English,  their  manners,  morals,  and  minds,  and 
he  did  as  much  for  the  Americans.  At  the  end 
of  an  hour  he  had  convinced  her  that  she  was 
a  superwoman,  which,  of  course,  she  had  al 
ways  suspected;  and  she  had  given  him  to 
understand  that  he  was  a  superman,  which 
he  was  not  unwilling  to  believe.  Thus  the  time 
passed  pleasantly. 

At  one  o'clock  the  coffee-colored  servant 
came  through  the  garden,  to  announce  luncheon, 


TROPIC   MADNESS  197 

beating  on  a  huge  brass  gong,  and  presently, 
as  they  went  up  to  the  terrace,  Mr.  Cholmonde- 
ley  joined  them,  red  in  the  face  and  perspir 
ing  freely. 

Ill 

DURING  luncheon  Mr.  Cholmondeley,  with 
the  aid  of  several  green  swizzles,  became  very 
talkative.  He  told  Andrew  at  great  length  of 
his  boyhood  home  in  England — Little  Boggsby, 
Kenbridge  Green,  Devon.  He  told  him  of  cer 
tain  misadventures  in  finance  that  had  led  him 
to  quit  Little  Boggsby;  he  told  him  of  his  three 
marriages,  and  of  the  birth  of  Psyche,  whom 
they  had  christened  Maria  —  whom,  indeedj 
they  had  called  Maria  until  she  reached  the  age 
of  rebellion — and  he  told  him  of  his  recent 
prosperity  here  at  Saint  Thomas  through  the 
manufacture  of  rum.  His  only  regret,  he  said, 
was  that  he  was  unable  to  give  Psyche  social 
opportunities. 

"But  she  has  the  society  of  her  books,"  ob 
jected  Andrew. 

uYes,"  agreed  Mr.  Cholmondeley,  "but  she 
can't"  marry  a  bloomin'  book!"  And  he  cast 
a  sly  look  at  Andrew,  and  went  through  the 
motion  of  digging  him  in  the  ribs.  Andrew  was 
a  little  disgusted — it  was  all  so  earthy  in  con 
trast  with  the  ethereal  morning.  It  was  like 
listening  to  ragtime  after  Debussy. 

"All    that    Psyche    needs    is    a    good,    hap- 


198  TROPIC  MADNESS 

py,  comfortable  marriage,"  concluded  Mr. 
Cholmondeley.  "It  will  settle  her  —  and 
Psyche  wants  settling." 

Andrew  could  not  openly  agree  with  this 
statement,  nor  could  he,  on  so  short  an  intimacy, 
venture  to  disagree ;  but  he  registered  inwardly 
a  violent  protest.  Psyche,  in  his  eyes,  needed 
no  settling,  and,  moreover,  he  refused  to  regard 
marriage  as  a  settling  institution — like  an  egg 
in  the  coffee.  Marriage,  surely,  was  something 
higher  than  that.  .  .  . 

That  very  afternoon  Psyche  assured  him  that 
she  agreed  with  him — that  marriage  was  some 
thing  far  higher  than  that. 

"Marriage,"  she  said  gravely,  "is  the  join 
ing  of  two  flames.  Although  both  may  have 
been  bright  flames  before  they  were  joined,  the 
resultant  flame  is  just  twice  as  strong  and  bril 
liant.  If  one  was  a  weak  flame,  its  weakness 
is  overcome  by  the  strength  of  the  other;  and  so 
closely  are  they  merged  that  it  is  impossible  to 
discern  which  was  the  weak  and  which  the 
strong." 

"What  a  beautiful  thought!"  said  Andrew. 

She  sighed  and  turned  her  intense  green  eyes 
heavenward. 

"I  have  many  thoughts,"  she  murmured, 
"but  until  now  I  have  had  no  one  to  listen  to 
them." 

He  bent  over  her  (she  was  on  a  sofa  in  the 
marble-paved  living-room) ,  and  before  he  knew 
it  he  was  holding  her  long  white  hand  in  his. 


TROPIC   MADNESS  199 

There  were  at  least  six  rings  on  her  hand,  all 
set  with  emeralds,  so  that  it  was  an  uncomfort 
able  hand  to  press.  Nevertheless,  Spartan- 
like,  he  pressed  it. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  udo  you  persist  in  living 
here  alone  —  in  isolating  yourself  from  the 
world?  You  could  sit  at  the  tables  of  kings, 
and  the  greatest  of  intellects  of  the  earth  would 
be  proud  to  do  you  honor." 

But  she  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"There  is  father,"  she  said.  "I  cannot  leave 
father." 

True,  there  was  father  —  uncomfortable 
thought! — father  with  his  land-crabs  and  his 
green  swizzles.  Obviously,  father  could  not 
be  included  at  king's  tables,  nor  would  great 
intellects  rush  to  do  him  honor.  Still,  could  not 
father  be  left  behind? 

"Your  father  has  so  many  interests — "  he 
began,  and  let  the  pause  speak  for  itself. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "his  is  a  very  full  life." 

For  some  reason  or  other  this  response  left 
Andrew  cold.  .  .  . 

But,  although  he  made  no  definite  progress 
that  day,  he  felt  that  sooner  or  later  Psyche 
and  he  must  arrive  at  an  understanding.  He 
felt  that  when  two  kindred  souls  are  groping 
toward  each  other,  even  in  the  dark,  they  are 
bound  eventually  to  touch.  So  far  they  had 
but  brushed  each  other's  wings.  Ah,  but  there 
remained  to-morrow  and  more  to-morrows — 
golden  to-morrows,  all  replete  with  the  com- 


200  TROPIC   MADNESS 

panionship  and  the  stimulus  of  Psyche  and  her 
beautiful  mind.  He  fell  asleep  that  night  with 
the  blissful  conviction  that  he  was  in  an  intel 
lectual  Eden — an  Eden  where  the  fruit  of  the 
Tree  of  Knowledge  was  the  specialite  de  la 
maison. 

IV 

HE  slept  peacefully  enough  until  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  was  aroused 
by  a  sound  of  scuffling  in  the  hall.  Lighting  a 
candle  and  opening  the  door,  he  discovered  that 
Shem,  the  cafe-au-lait  man  servant,  was  assist 
ing  Mr.  Cholmondeley  to  bed,  and  that  Mr. 
Cholmondeley,  although  patently  in  need  of 
assistance,  was  resenting  it. 

"Can't  have  those  beashly  crabs  crawlin'  up 
the  wall,"  Mr.  Cholmondeley  protested. 

uThey  eyen't  crabs,"  Shem  assured  him. 
"They's  the  pictures  on  the  new  wall-piper." 
And  with  a  vigorous  shove  he  got  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  out  of  the  hall  into  his  room. 

"Good  lord,"  groaned  Andrew,  as  he  blew 
out  his  candle,  "how  can  that  beast  be  father 
to  such  a  wonderful  girl!" 

With  this  thought  came  high  resolve:  he 
would  marry  the  girl  and  take  her  away — far 
away  from  this  sordid  environment.  And  he 
would  take  her  even  against  her  will;  he  would 
play  the  Roman  to  her  Sabine  woman;  he  would 
prove  himself  a  very  man.  And  so  he  slept 


TROPIC  MADNESS  201 

again,  this  time  until  far  into  the  following 
morning. 

The  mornings,  he  found,  gave  him  many  op 
portunities  for  conversation  with  Psyche,  for 
Mr.  Cholmondeley  usually  stayed  in  bed  until 
luncheon.  Thus  Andrew  and  Psyche  were  able 
to  plumb  each  other's  souls  to  their  hearts'  con 
tent  with  no  interruptions  of  the  earth  earthy. 
Each  day  Andrew  fancied  that  he  made  new 
discoveries,  each  day  Psyche  revealed  a  new 
and  sparkling  soul-aspect,  and  each  day  Andrew 
grew  more  certain  that  she  was  the  one  woman 
in  the  world  to  make  him  happy.  She  was  his 
psychical  supplement! 

On  the  morning  of  the  eighth  day  he  deliv 
ered  his  rather  carefully  prepared  speech.  Try 
ing  to  make  it  appear  that  he  extemporized, 
however,  he  said: 

uThere  is  no  doubt — and  even  the  most 
transcendental  intellects  have  admitted  it  — 
that  love  is  a  very  potent  force.  Many  claim 
that  life  is  incomplete  without  it,  a  view  which 
of  course  is  not  shared  by  Plato  or  Sir  Isaac 
Newton.  But  I  imagine  that  even  they  take 
exception  only  to  sensuous  love — the  love  which 
attacks  the  senses  exclusively  and  which  takes 
no  account  of  the  soul  and  the  mind.  A  great 
love,  the  real  love,  involves  all  three,  and  that 
is  the  only  love  that  I  recognize.  Psyche,  my 
dear,  I  love  you  with  my  body,  my  soul,  and 
my  mind,  or,  better,  to  put  them  in  the  order 
of  their  importance,  with  my  soul  and  my  mind 


202  TROPIC  MADNESS 

and  my  body.  I  need  you,  Psyche,  I  need  you 
psychically  and  mentally  and — yes,  and  physi 
cally.  Do  you  feel  any  such  need  of  me?" 

He  paused  there,  satisfied  that  he  had  pre 
sented  his  case  satisfactorily.  True  he  had  not 
been  very  passionate,  but  he  believed  that  pas 
sion  was  for  people  of  baser  clay.  With  Mar- 
cella  Maynard,  for  example,  he  had  quite  been 
carried  away.  How  much  saner  this  was — how 
much  less  bestial ! 

He  paused,  then,  for  her  to  speak.  But  she, 
not  having  prepared  an  adequate  reply  in  ad 
vance,  resorted,  I  regret  to  say,  to  the  methods 
employed  by  primitive  woman:  she  threw  her 
arms  around  Andrew's  neck  and  kissed  him 
violently  on  the  lips.  During  the  process,  un 
expected  and  startling  though  it  was,  Andrew 
had  time  and  opportunity  to  realize  how  thin 
she  was.  Indeed,  her  physical  deficiencies  tem 
porarily  quite  overbalanced  her  undoubted  psy 
chical  and  mental  advantages.  She  was  a  super- 
woman,  true — but  a  very  angular  superwoman. 
He  recalled,  in  spite  of  himself,  the  comfortably 
rounded  contours  of  Marcella,  the  exquisite 
smoothness  of  her  skin,  the  vague  yet  exhilarat 
ing  scent  of  her  hair — and  then,  with  an  effort, 
he  put  such  treachery  by,  for  Psyche,  having 
found  in  the  duration  of  the  embrace  ample  time 
to  marshal  her  forces,  was  giving  utterance  to 
great  soul  thoughts. 

Said  she :  "My  being  takes  fire  at  the  touch 
of  your  lips,  and,  though  the  contact  be  physical, 


TROPIC   MADNESS  203 

yet  do  I  seem  to  cast  off  the  weight  of  clay  that 
chains  me  to  the  earth,  and  my  soul,  taking 
wings,  soars  high  among  the  stars.  I  am  con 
scious  of  new  power;  new  vistas  reveal  them 
selves;  I  seem  to  see  more  clearly,  as  though 
a  veil  had  been  taken  from  before  my  eyes. 
Life,  and  its  solution,  has  suddenly  lost  its 
complexity;  the  mysteries  of  existence  have 
dissolved  like  a  fog  before  a  wind  from  the  sea. 
Everything  is  crystal-clear.  That,  Andrew,  is 
love!" 

"Yes,  my  dearest,"  sighed  Andrew,  patting 
her  shoulder-blades,  "that  is  the  morning  of 
love." 


THEY  chose  to  announce  their  betrothal  to 
Mr.  Cholmondeley  at  dinner  that  evening. 
Psyche,  consenting  to  come  to  earth  for  an  in 
stant,  had  suggested  that  her  father  was  always 
in  his  most  receptive  mood  at  that  hour — that 
before  dinner  he  was  apt  to  be  very  petulant, 
and  that  after  dinner  he  was  apt  not  to  remem 
ber  anything  that  was  told  him.  Andrew  hastily 
agreed. 

Mr.  Cholmondeley,  having  mixed  himself 
several  green  swizzles  was,  in  truth,  very  ge 
nial  and  hearty.  He  received  the  announce 
ment  with  enthusiasm,  and  with  so  little  sur 
prise  that  Andrew  was  vaguely  disturbed. 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mr. — er " 


204  TROPIC   MADNESS 

.     "Mr.  Farley,"  supplied  Psyche. 

uYes,  to  be  sure — Mr.  Farley.  I  congrat 
ulate  you,  Mr.  Farley,  on  your  choice  of  a  mate. 
Freely  and  ungrudgingly  I  give  you  the  one 
flower  of  my  garden — my  last  and  only  rose. 
It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive."  And 
he  sat  down,  wholly  unconscious  that  this  last 
might  well  be  misinterpreted. 

Then,  already  in  excellent  spirits,  he  called 
for  champagne. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Mr.  Cholmondeley  had 
reached  a  stage  in  his  intoxication  when  Psyche 
seemed  to  him  a  most  precious  jewel  that  he  was 
bestowing  upon  Andrew.  She  was  more  than 
his  jewel,  she  was  his  one  ewe  lamb,  she  was  his 
ray  of  sunlight,  she  was  the  staff  of  his  old  age; 
in  brief,  she  was  all  that  he  had  to  live  for. 
He  sincerely  hoped  that  Andrew  appreciated 
the  sacrifice  that  he  was  making  in  giving  her 
up.  He  liked  Andrew — yes,  he  liked  Andrew 
extremely,  but,  by  heaven,  there  was  no  man 
alive  worthy  of  his  little  Psyche. 

"To  me  she's  always  little  Psyche,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Never  growshup.  All  fathersatway, 
I  suppose." 

Andrew  strenuously  endeavored  to  match 
his  enthusiasm,  but  Andrew,  remaining  sober, 
found  it  a  difficult  task.  The  best  he  could  do 
was  to  acquiesce  silently  to  Mr.  Cholmondeley's 
wildest  eulogies,  or  to  murmur  at  intervals: 
"Indeed  she  is,"  or  "You're  quite  right,  sir," 
or  "She  certainly  is  a  remarkable  woman." 


TROPIC   MADNESS  205 

This,  however,  did  not  fully  satisfy  his  fu 
ture  father-in-law,  who  began  to  rebuke  Andrew 
for  undue  coolness.  He  wanted  to  see  more 
warmth,  more  gratitude  for  the  blessings  that 
had  been  vouchsafed  him.  He  grew  querulous; 
he  was  damned  if  he  thought  Andrew  realized 
how  highly  he  had  been  honored.  And  his  part 
ing  words,  as  Shem  led  him  off  to  bed,  were : 
"You're  a  bloomin'  iceberg.  Makes  me  shiver 
to  look  at  you.  Reg'lar  heart  of  ice,  you  have, 
reg'lar  heart  of  ice.  Can't  you  thaw,  damn  you, 
can't  you  thaw?" 

Then,  with  great  dignity,  he  shook  Andrew 
by  the  hand  and,  slyly,  that  Shem  might  not 
hear,  whispered:  "You  jus'  wait  till  you  know 
Psyche  better.  She'll  thaw  your  heart  of  ice, 
she  will,  good  and  proper.  Psyche's  a  reg'lar 
Gulf  Stream  for  thawing  icebergs." 

There  was  something  ominous  about  this  ad 
monition,  and  indeed,  as  Andrew  looked  back 
on  it,  there  was  something  disquieting  about  the 
entire  evening.  He  found  that  he  could  not 
sleep  for  thinking  of  it.  More  than  once  as 
he  lay  in  bed  he  wondered  if  he  were  not  en 
gaged  in  a  foolish  venture.  It  was  all  very 
splendid,  of  course,  this  Lochinvar  impetuosity, 
but  ... 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a  suc 
cession  of  shots  fired  in  the  hall.  At  once  he 
recognized  the  gasping  pop  of  Mr.  Cholmonde- 
ley's  air-rifle,  and  he  thanked  heaven  that  his 
future  father-in-law  made  use  of  no  more  dan- 


206  TROPIC   MADNESS 

gerous  weapon.  The  firing  continued  with 
short  pauses  between  shots,  during  which  Mr. 
Cholmondeley's  voice  could  be  heard  complain 
ing  of  his  lack  of  success. 

"Could  have  sworn,"  said  he,  "that  I  bagged 
the  bloomin'  beggar  that  time."  And  then: 
"Confound  his  eyes,  he's  climbin'  up  the  wall  1" 

Presently  Shem  appeared  from  some  mys 
terious  region — a  frightened,  white-eyed,  gray- 
faced  Shem.  Without  a  second's  hesitation  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  turned  and  pointed  the  gun  at 
him. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  int'ferin'  for?" 
cried  Mr.  Cholmondeley — "interruptin'  my 
shootin'  like  that.  You  go  back  to  bed — 
straight.  Can't  have  you  always  botherin'  me 
and  spoilin'  sport." 

At  this  point,  when  Shem  seemed  to  be  in 
danger,  Andrew  felt  called  upon  to  intervene; 
so  he  opened  wide  his  door  and  clad  only  in  one 
of  Mr.  Cholmondeley's  nightshirts,  walked 
barefooted  into  the  hall.  His  appearance 
created  a  momentary  diversion,  for  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  swung  round  on  him  in  a  rage. 

"Here's  another!"  he  exclaimed  —  "here's 
another  spoil-sport.  Can't  be  let  alone  in  peace 
in  this  house.  Here  I  come  out  to  kill  these 
bloomin'  crabs  that  are  swarmin'  up  the  wall — 
tryin'  to  protect  the  sleepin'  household,  I  am — 
and  what  thanks  do  I  get?  None.  Nothin' 
but  int'ference." 

"They     eyen't     crabs,"     quavered     Shem. 


TROPIC   MADNESS  207 

"They's  the  pattern  on  the  new  wallpiper.  I 
told  you  so  last  time." 

Mr.  Cholmondeley  drew  himself  up  in  cold 
dignity. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "but  I  won't 
permit  a  servant  of  mine  to  contradict  me  in 
mownouse.  I  say  they're  crabs,  and  crabs  they 
are;  and  they  must  be  'sterminated." 

He  aimed  his  air-rifle  unsteadily  at  a  brown 
arabesque — one  of  many — that  decorated  the 
wall-paper.  But  the  multiplicity  of  similar  fig 
ures  seemed  so  to  unnerve  him  that  the  barrel 
of  his  gun  wavered  from  one  to  the  other  alarm 
ingly.  Finally,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  pulled 
the  trigger,  and  the  bullet  embedded  itself  with 
a  splutter  in  the  plaster. 

Andrew,  motioning  to  Shem  to  help  him, 
stepped  quickly  forward  and  seized  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  by  the  shoulders,  while  Shem 
struggled  for  possession  of  the  air-rifle.  But 
Mr.  Cholmondeley,  righteously  indignant  at 
such  sly  tactics,  resisted  and  shouted  for  help. 
They  made  a  great  din,  the  three  of  them — so 
great  that  Psyche  was  aroused  from  her  rosy 
slumber,  and  came,  dishevelled,  to  see  what  was 
amiss. 

Now  Psyche,  dishevelled,  was  no  very  at 
tractive  sight.  It  is  the  painful  duty  of  the 
realist  to  depict  his  heroines  as  they  are,  not 
as  they  should  be,  and  in  this  case  the  duty  is 
very  painful  indeed.  Let  us  harden  our  hearts 
to  romance,  then,  and  blurt  out  the  brutal 


208  TROPIC   MADNESS 

truth :  Psyche,  as  she  advanced  in  her  night 
gown  and  slippers,  was  a  ridiculous,  untidy,  un 
kempt  caricature  of  a  woman.  Andrew  noted 
with  a  pang  that  she  had  left  a  great  deal  of  her 
beautiful  hair  behind  her,  and  that  what  re 
mained  was  scant  and  stringy  and  done  up  in 
patent  curlers.  She  had  applied  cold-cream  so 
generously  to  her  face  that  she  shone  like  a  sun 
at  noon.  She  had  angles  at  unexpected  places, 
some  decently  obtuse,  but  many — those  at  her 
elbows,  for  instance — indecently  acute.  Where 
one  would  have  expected  her  to  be  convex  she 
was  concave,  and  vice  versa.  She — but  no  I 
I  can  go  no  further.  I  am  not  a  Zola.  .  .  . 

Andrew  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
turned  and  fled,  like  ^neas  from  the  harpies. 

His  flight  ended  for  the  time  in  his  bedroom, 
where  he  cowered,  filled  with  a  great  revulsion. 
Crack!  His  idol  had  toppled  off  her  pedestal. 
No  greatness  of  soul,  no  splendor  of  intellect 
could  atone  for  the  sheer  ugliness  of  his  idol's 
body. 

The  clamor  in  the  hall  increased  rather  than 
diminished,  and  now  there  was  added  to  it  a 
woman's  voice,  Psyche's,  shrill  and  unmod 
ulated.  In  her  excitement  she  lapsed  almost 
into  the  cockney  of  the  servants. 

"Hush  up,  you  blighter,"  he  heard  her  say 
to  her  father.  "Do  you  want  to  spoil  every 
thing!  Wot's  Mr.  Farley  going  to  think  of  all 
this,  I'd  like  to  know!" 

Mr.    Cholmondeley    replied    that    he    was 


TROPIC   MADNESS  209 

damned  if  he  cared  what  Mr.  Farley  thought, 
whereupon  Psyche  retorted  that  it  was  a  nice 
father  she  had,  a  nice  father,  indeed.  And, 
to  explain  her  meaning  more  fully,  she  pointed 
out  to  him  that  he  was  a  drunken  sot.  At  this 
Mr.  Cholmondeley,  quite  naturally,  burst  into 
tears,  murmuring  between  sobs  disjointed 
phrases  relative  to  the  ingratitude  of  the  young. 

There  followed  a  silence;  then  Shem's  per 
suasive  voice  urging  Mr.  Cholmondeley  to  his 
room;  then  unsteady  footsteps  down  the  hall, 
the  opening  and  closing  of  a  door;  then  more 
silence,  this  time  prolonged. 

But  with  the  silence  there  came  to  Andrew 
no  sleep,  nor  any  desire  for  sleep.  His  mind 
was  made  up  to  one  thing:  he  would  spend  not 
another  night  in  the  house  that  sheltered  Mr. 
and  Miss  Cholmondeley.  The  realization  of 
how  narrowly  he  had  escaped  leading  Psyche 
to  the  altar  struck  him  like  a  blow  and  left  him 
shaking  but  resolved.  He  had  got  himself  into 
a  mess — it  but  remained  to  get  himself  out. 
How  to  do  it?  The  answer  stared  him  in  the 
face.  Flight ! 

True,  he  had  no  definite  place  to  which  to 
flee,  and  no  clothes  to  flee  in  save  those  that 
he  had  worn  on  the  day  of  his  arrival.  Since 
then  Mr.  Cholmondeley  had  generously  sup 
plied  him  his  wardrobe.  But  there  was  a  steam 
er  in  the  harbor — that  he  remembered — an 
old,  sea-battered  tramp,  come  probably  for 
coal,  and  bound  God  knew  whither.  The  Pan- 


210  TROPIC   MADNESS 

ama  Canal?  Trinidad?  Brazil?  It  mat 
tered  not.  At  that  moment  the  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta  would  have  been  more  acceptable  than 
Saint  Thomas. 

Ten  minutes  later,  in  his  stocking  feet,  car 
rying  his  shoes  in  his  hand,  Andrew  Farley 
stepped  cautiously  out  into  the  dark  hall.  No 
convict  attempting  an  escape  from  Sing-Sing 
was  ever  filled  with  more  trepidation;  no  bur 
glar  entering  a  house  was  ever  so  apprehensive 
as  Andrew  leaving  this  one.  And,  of  course, 
when  silence  was  at  such  a  premium,  he  tripped 
idiotically  on  the  stairs  and  fell  to  the  landing 
with  a  great  crash. 

He  picked  himself  up,  dazed  and  sore,  and 
so  miserable  that  he  could  have  wept.  He  was 
filled  with  an  immeasurable  self-pity.  Every 
body  and  everything  were  against  him. 

While  he  was  rubbing  his  limbs  on  the  land 
ing  he  heard  above  him  the  sound  of  stealthy 
footsteps — stealthy  but  erratic;  and  presently 
there  appeared  the  light  of  a  candle,  zigzagging 
like  a  firefly.  Holding  the  candle,  and  re 
sponsible  for  its  uncertain  course,  was  Mr. 
Cholmondeley,  clad  now  only  in  his  nightshirt 
and  a  pair  of  elastic-sided  slippers.  But  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  carried  something  else  besides 
the  candle — something  long  and  slender  and 
shining,  something  with  a  polished  wooden 
butt  and  a  round  of  steel  barrel.  And  Mr. 
Cholmondeley's  eye  was  filled  with  the  lust  of 
the  huntsman. 


TROPIC   MADNESS  211 

Andrew  did  not  linger  to  parley  or  to  speak 
him  soft.  He  took  the  stairs  in  three  amazing 
leaps.  Mr.  Cholmondeley  was  slower,  but  at 
that  he  made  the  descent  with  surprising  rapid 
ity  and  incredible  noise,  and  at  each  step  he 
cried:  "Ah,  ha,  you're  tryin'  to  escape,  are 
you!"  in  a  tone  that  sent  a  chill  to  Andrew's 
already  overtaxed  heart.  At  the  landing  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  flung  the  candlestick  in  the  direc 
tion  that  he  imagined  Andrew's  head  to  be, 
missing  his  mark  by  a  scant  two  inches — a  very 
fair  shot,  indeed.  Andrew  paused  long  enough 
to  retaliate  with  his  shoes,  one  after  the  other, 
and  the  second  one  elicited  a  grunt  of  distress 
from  his  pursuer  and  checked  his  progress  for 
several  very  valuable  seconds.  During  this 
time  Andrew  was  able  to  slip  through  the  front 
door  and  slam  it  behind  him.  Once  outside, 
he  paused  for  a  quick  breath  of  the  night  air 
and  started  on  a  run  for  the  gate  and  the  road 
to  Charlotte-Amalia. 

Now  the  night  had  been  made  for  love,  not 
for  hate.  It  was  a  night  for  whispered  vows 
and  long  caresses — for  hands  to  clasp  and  lips 
to  meet  and  eyes  to  speak  fondly  to  starry  eyes. 
A  tropical  moon  swam  warmly  in  a  warm  sky; 
a  breeze  off  the  sea  bore  subtle  perfumes  of 
roses  from  the  garden  and  stirred  the  plume- 
like  branches  of  the  royal  palms  so  that  they 
seemed  to  fan  the  stars.  A  gentle  night,  a 
sensuous  night,  a  very  night  of  love. 

But,  behold,  here  was  Andrew,  philosopher 


212  TROPIC   M4DNESS 

and  sage,  apostle  of  the  soul  and  student  of  the 
fundamental,  fleeing,  shoeless  and  dishevelled, 
from  her  who  was  (or,  at  least,  had  seemed 
to  be)  his  supplemental  woman.  To  do  him 
justice,  however,  the  more  immediate  and  active 
cause  of  his  flight  was  his  supplemental  wo 
man's  father. 

Did  I  say  immediate  and  active?  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  was  both. 

At  the  gate  Andrew  had  a  scant  twenty  yards' 
start,  and  as  he  rounded  the  turn  into  the  road 
he  heard  the  vicious  spit  of  Mr.  Cholmonde- 
ley's  air-rifle,  and  a  bullet  went  ping!  in  the 
dust  behind  him. 

Silver-white  in  the  moonlight,  and  curving 
easily  and  gracefully  with  the  contour  of  the 
shore,  lay  the  road  to  Charlotte-Amalia.  A 
low  stone  wall,  vine-clad,  bordered  it  on  the 
left,  stemming  the  green  tide  of  tropic  foliage 
that  rolled  luxuriantly  down  from  the  hills. 
On  the  right,  screened  only  by  the  contorted 
trunks  of  trees  that  persisted,  in  the  face  of  com 
mon  sense,  in  growing  among  the  rocks,  was  the 
far-resounding  sea.  There  was  no  escape,  then, 
either  to  right  or  to  left.  Where  the  road  went, 
there  must  Andrew  go,  a  desperately  speeding 
figure  under  the  moon. 

And  where  Andrew  went,  Mr.  Cholmonde 
ley  followed,  as  swift  as  the  vengeance  of 
the  gods  and  as  inevitable.  A  mad  flight,  that 
was — an  epic  flight,  a  Homeric  flight,  with  An 
drew  the  Hector  and  Mr.  Cholmondeley  the 


TROPIC   MADNESS  213 

swift-footed  Achilles.  The  gods  shook  the  stars 
with  their  laughter. 

Andrew  and  his  pursuer  ran  in  silence  the 
first  hundred  yards,  and  Andrew  more  than 
held  his  own.  Perceiving  this,  Mr.  Cholmonde- 
ley  began  to  hurl  invective.  He  called  An 
drew  a  Don  Juan  and  a  damned  Lothario,  and, 
for  emphasis,  he  again  fired  his  air-rifle.  This 
cost  him  several  yards,  but  he  had  the  satisfac 
tion  of  knowing  that  his  aim  had  at  last  been 
true;  for  Andrew  gave  a  little  cry,  stumbled 
in  his  stride  and  then,  spurred  on  by  pain, 
sprang  away  with  increased  speed.  Fortunately 
an  air-gun  does  not  often  kill. 

And  now,  as  Andrew  raced  along  the  pale, 
winding  road,  he  turned  his  back  to  the  moon 
and  his  shadow  shot  frantically  out  ahead  of 
him — a  long,  lean,  grotesque  shadow,  that 
clutched  and  leaped  and  swayed  on  spider-like 
legs.  For  one  brief,  heart-breaking  instant  An 
drew  believed  it  to  be  his  pursuer's  shadow, 
coming  on  him  from  behind;  but  a  glance  over 
his  shoulder  reassured  him.  Mr.  Cholmonde- 
ley  was  struggling  prodigiously  a  full  hundred 
yards  back. 

The  road,  deserting  the  sea,  presently 
widened  and  became  smoother  and  an  oc 
casional  house  gleamed  pink  or  yellow  behind 
the  palms.  They  were  approaching  the  village. 
Soon  their  footsteps  echoed  in  the  quiet  streets, 
rousing  a  lonely  dog  from  his  slumber — a  dog 
that  immediately  joined  whole-heartedly  in  the 


214  TROPIC  MADNESS 

chase.  But  Charlotte-Amalia,  undisturbed,  or 
too  languid  to  heed,  slept  peacefully  behind 
closed  shutters. 

In  the  same  square  by  the  quay  there  was  no 
one  to  witness  Andrew's  hurried  arrival.  The 
black  boys  that  plied  their  little  flat-bottomed 
boats  about  the  harbor  during  the  day,  had  long 
since  departed,  as  had  the  venders  of  fruit  and 
vegetables.  The  cab-stand  was  deserted;  even 
the  bar  that  dispensed  "fine  sippings"  to  the 
thirsty  displayed  no  signs  of  animation.  But 
out  in  the  harbor,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  quay,  swung  the  lights  of  the  tramp 
steamer.  And  the  presence  of  that  tramp 
steamer  was  all  that  concerned  Andrew  at  the 
moment. 

There  was  no  ferryman — that  was  obvious — 
but  there  were  plenty  of  ferries,  the  black  boys 
having  drawn  their  fleet  of  tiny,  brightly  colored 
boats  high  up  on  the  beach  and  left  them  un 
guarded  and  unlocked.  But  Andrew  knew 
himself  to  be  an  uncertain  oarsman,  and  obser 
vation  had  taught  him  that  the  little  boats  were 
first-rate  sieves,  hospitable  to  sea  water.  His 
momentary  hesitation  was  cut  short,  however, 
by  the  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  and  panting 
imprecations,  and,  like  Macbeth,  he  realized 
that  if  it  were  to  be  done,  'twere  well  it  were 
done  quickly. 

He  selected  a  nice  little  pink  boat  named 
Sea  Rover,  seized  it  clumsily  amidships,  and 
launched  it  in  the  sea.  Then  he  tried  to  get 


TROPIC   MADNESS  215 

into  it.  Mr.  Cholmondeley,  arriving  in  haste, 
stood  on  the  beach  and  laughed  at  him — 
laughed  and  panted  and  laughed — and  every 
time  that  Andrew  seemed  about  to  succeed,  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  would  take  careful  aim  with  the 
air-gun  and  fire.  This  proved  most  discon 
certing. 

Then  Mr.  Cholmondeley,  perceiving  further 
possibilities  of  entertainment,  began  to  sing  and 
to  do  a  sort  of  barbaric  dance.  For  the  most 
part  he  sang  songs  of  the  sea,  with  many  yo- 
ho-hos  and  avasts  and  belays  and  the  like ;  and 
he  completed  the  programme  by  rendering 
"Baby's  bed's  a  little  boat,  sailing  on  the  sea," 
punctuating  the  end  of  every  line  with  a  shot 
from  his  air-gun — thus: 

"Sail,  baby, — ping 
Out  across  the — zip 
Only   don't   forget   to — bing 
Back  again  to — blip." 

But  in  all  this  Andrew  could  see  no  humor. 

When  he  finally  managed  to  clamber  success 
fully  into  the  Sea  Rover,  he  was  smarting  phy 
sically  from  the  cannonade  and  mentally  from 
the  ignominy  of  his  predicament.  He  seized 
the  oars  in  a  sullen  rage  and  pulled  for  the 
lights  of  the  tramp  steamer.  Out  to  him  across 
the  moonlit  water  was  borne  the  sound  of 
Mr.  Cholmondeley's  voice,  wistfully  intoning 
"Crossing  the  Bar." 


216  TROPIC   MADNESS 


VI 


THREE  weeks  later  Andrew  landed  in  New 
York,  sadder  and  wiser.  As  soon  as  he  had 
donned  proper  clothing  he  went  to  see  Marcella 
Maynard,  and  very  humbly  begged  her  to  re 
consider  her  decision.  He  pointed  out  that  dur 
ing  the  last  months  he  had  suffered  much,  and 
that  suffering  has  made  him  more  tolerant, 
more  human.  He  asserted  that  he  saw  things 
differently  now,  that  he  had  discovered  that  the 
true  secret  of  happiness  lay  not  within  the  mind, 
but  within  the  heart,  and  that  a  soul,  to  be  truly 
beautiful,  must  have  a  beautiful  envelope.  He 
was  inclined  to  doubt,  he  said,  that  lilies  grew 
in  mire. 

Marcella  did  not  understand  him  until  he 
seized  her  in  his  arms  and  commenced  to  whis 
per  baby  talk  into  her  ear.  Then  she  sighed 
comfortably,  murmured  "Now  you're  my  nice, 
old  Andy,"  and  raised  her  face  to  be  kissed. 

And  so  they  were  married  and  lived  happily 
ever  after,  with  many  children  and  few  brain- 
throbs  ;  and  Andrew  made  a  huge  bonfire  in  the 
back  yard  of  their  suburban  villa,  and  to  it  con 
signed  his  library  of  philosophers  and  psychol 
ogists  and  other  purveyors  of  indigestible  men 
tal  food,  exclaiming  as  he  did  so:  "Gloria 
Veneri!" 

"What  does  that  mean?"  inquired  Marcella, 
as  she  tossed  six  volumes  of  Ibsen  to  the  flames. 


TROPIC   MADNESS  217 

Andrew  hesitated  an  instant;  then  he  trans 
lated  freely. 

"That,"  he  said,  "means:  'Down  with  the 
emancipated  woman!'  ' 

"Oh,"  murmured  Marcella — "you  have 
changed!" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Andrew  meditatively.  "I 
like  'em  old-fashioned  and — plump." 


JEANNE,    THE    MAID 


JEANNE,    THE    MAID 

NOTHING  else  that  Richard  Barclay  ever  did 
during  his  active,  startling  life  surprised  me  so 
much  as  his  joining  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
It  is  true  that  I  would  never  have  accused  him 
of  being  a  pagan  or  an  atheist — he  is  too 
modern  for  the  one  and  too  imaginative  for  the 
other — but  I  had  always  marked  him  down  as 
one  of  those  non-practising  Episcopalians  who 
accept  the  religion  of  their  fathers  as  unthink 
ingly  as  they  accept  their  baptismal  names. 
"Who  gave  you  this  name?"  "My  sponsors 
in  baptism."  "And  who  gave  you  this  re 
ligion?"  "Why,  I  suppose  they  did,  too." 

But  it  has  always  been  impossible  to  put 
Richard  Barclay  into  a  pigeonhole  and  say: 
"There,  that  is  where  he  belongs — that  is  his 
species,  that  is  his  variety."  He  is  a  man  whom 
you  cannot  catalogue,  or,  rather,  whom  you  can 
catalogue  only  under  a  score  of  different  head 
ings.  For  example,  it  is  difficult  definitely  to 
state  even  his  profession :  he  is  a  war  correspon 
dent — yes,  and  he  is  a  philologist;  he  is  an  ex 
plorer,  undeniably;  and  he  is  a  historian,  hav 
ing  written  a  life  of  Charles  VI,  in  I  forget 
how  many  volumes;  he  is  a  soldier  of  fortune 
when  he  is  unfortunate  enough  to  have  nothing 
221 


222  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

better  to  occupy  him;  and  he  is  a  botanist  no 
matter  how  pressing  his  other  occupations  may 
be.  A  man  of  many  and  varied  talents,  you 
perceive,  who  might  to-day  have  been  a  very 
famous  man  had  he  chosen  to  exercise  any  one 
of  them  continuously  and  exclusively. 

Although  he  is  perhaps  thirty-eight  years  old, 
he  appears  younger;  and  he  is  handsome  in  a 
dark,  tanned,  healthy  way.  Women  look  at 
him  twice,  and  having  looked,  grow  irritable 
with  their  husbands.  And  yet  he  has  something 
of  the  ascetic  about  him — not  that  he  is  sallow 
or  starved  or  soulful-eyed — but  he  conveys  very 
forcibly  an  impression  of  supreme  cleanliness 
and  health,  both  mental  and  physical. 

I  am  probably  the  best  friend  that  he  has  in 
New  York,  and  during  his  brief  visits  to  that 
city  he  makes  a  point  of  looking  me  up,  either 
at  my  club  or  at  my  bachelor  apartment.  We 
dine  together  and  he  tells  me  of  his  latest  ex 
ploits  in  whichever  one  of  his  professions  he  has 
been  practising.  I,  for  my  part,  having  nothing 
in  my  life  but  humdrum  routine,  make,  I 
imagine,  an  appreciative  listener.  Now  that 
I  think  of  it,  ever  since  our  days  at  boarding- 
school,  I  have  been  Barclay's  audience :  he  has 
never  been  mine. 

Barclay  had  been  in  France  when  the  war 
broke  out:  that  much  I  knew;  but  where  in 
France  or  why  in  France  I  knew  not.  One 
evening  in  the  middle  of  last  March  he  returned 
to  New  York  and  enlightened  me. 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  223 

My  Jap  served  us  dinner  in  my  rooms,  for 
Barclay  insisted  that  he  preferred  to  be  alone 
with  me  that  first  evening.  He  said  that  his  soul 
had  been  spaded  up  and  turned  under,  just  as 
you  do  with  soil  to  make  it  more  fertile,  and 
that  out  of  the  hitherto  barren  ground  had 
sprung  up  a  most  wonderful  bloom — mystical, 
golden,  awing.  And  then,  with  no  further  warn 
ing,  he  told  me  that  he  had  become  a  Roman 
Catholic.  I  stammered  out  my  astonishment, 
while  he  sat  unmoved,  his  chair  pushed  back 
from  the  table,  sipping  his  coffee.  Unmoved? 
Yes,  except  for  a  slight  glow  in  his  thin  brown 
cheeks  and  a  new,  unfathomable  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"You  are  surprised?"  he  inquired. 

uYes — why,  yes — naturally.  It's  rather  sud 
den,  isn't  it?" 

"Quite  sudden,"  he  answered.  "Most  revela 
tions  of  faith  are.  There  was  Peter,  and  An 
drew,  you  remember,  and  Paul,  and — yes,  and 
Mary  Magdalene." 

"That  is  true,"  I  agreed,  "but  they  lived  in 
the  days  when  Christ  walked  the  earth.  They 
saw  miracles  being  wrought." 

He  nodded  slowly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  table, 
his  fingers  playing  with  the  coffee-spoon.  Then 
he  threw  back  his  head  abruptly  and  said:  "I, 
too,  have  seen  miracles  being  wrought." 

He  was  so  absolutely  serious,  so  much  in 
earnest,  when  he  made  this  remarkable  state 
ment  that  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  reply.  I  did 


224 JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

not  want  to  hurt  his  feelings,  but  I  might  have 
reminded  him  that  the  Church  puts  no  faith  in 
latter-day  miracles,  and  that  many  advanced 
theologians  refuse  to  accept  even  the  New  Tes 
tament  miracles  literally. 

I  think  that  he  perceived  my  trouble,  for  he 
said:  "Oh,  no  —  I'm  not  mad.  And  I'm 
thoroughly  sincere.  I  know,  I  know — here  in 
hard,  matter-of-fact  New  York  it  sounds  pre 
posterous,  but  wait  until  I've  told  you  about  it 
and  then  judge  for  yourself." 

I  felt  that  vague  uneasiness  you  experience 
when  some  one  starts  to  tell  a  ghost  story,  and 
mingled  with  that  was  a  certain  reluctance  to 
sit  by  and  witness  a  man  lay  bare  the  innermost 
sanctuary  of  his  soul.  However,  it  was  clear 
that  Barclay  would  not  be  content  until  he 
should  have  told  me  the  story;  so  I  lighted  a 
cigar  to  keep  my  nerves  in  hand,  and  told  him 
to  begin. 

"Last  spring,"  said  he,  "I  spent  walking  in 
the  Vosges  Mountains,  just  across  the  border 
from  Alsace-Lorraine.  I  did  a  little  botanizing 
and  a  little  stone-tapping,  but  mostly  I  breathed 
in  health  and  happiness  with  the  air.  I  strayed 
about  aimlessly  enough — that  was  one  of  the 
refreshing  things  about  it,  that  I  had  no  definite 
aim.  A  definite  aim,  no  matter  how  satisfac 
tory  it  may  be  when  attained,  always  involves 
a  certain  amount  of  labored  plodding,  and  life 
is  too  short  to  plod  in — or,  perhaps  better,  to 
those  that  plod  life  seems  often  too  long." 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  225 

I  acquiesced  rather  bitterly.  I  am  afraid  that 
I  am  a  plodder. 

"Well,  at  any  rate/'  he  continued,  "toward 
the  end  of  June  I  found  myself  not  far  from  a 
village — a  village  so  small  that  you  can  find  it 
on  few  maps,  and  yet  a  village  whose  name  once 
rang  around  the  world.  Perhaps  the  name, 
even  now,  will  mean  something  to  you — Dom- 
remy.  What  does  it  bring  to  your  mind,  that 
name — Domremy?  Do  you  see  a  girl  kneeling 
in  a  garden  beside  the  churchyard?  Do  you 
hear  a  rushing  of  white  wings  as  St.  Michael 
stands  before  her?  Do  you  see  her,  clad  in 
armor,  a  straight  slender  figure  astride  a  huge 
white  horse?  Do  you  hear  the  trampling  of 
hoofs  and  the  shouts  of  men  as  she  leads  an 
army  into  battle,  ever  triumphant  under  the 
lilies  of  France?  Do  you  see  her  raise  a  siege 
at  Orleans  and  crown  a  king  at  Reims?  And, 
finally,  do  you  see  her  kissing  the  cross  as  the 
flames  reach  up  to  her,  where  she  stands  a  mar 
tyr  at  the  stake?" 

His  eyes  glowed  feverishly,  fanatically,  and 
he  rose  from  his  chair  and  commenced  to  pace 
the  room. 

"Jeanne  d'Arc,"  I  murmured. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "Jeanne  d'Arc — Jeanne, 
the  Maid." 

It  was  a  full  minute  before  he  could  control 
himself  sufficiently  to  continue. 

"I  went  to  Domremy,"  he  said  at  length, 
"and  I  saw  the  house  in  which  she  was  born  and 


226  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

the  garden  in  which  she  heard  the  Voices.  Even 
then  I  was  interested  in  her  only  as  you,  your 
self,  are  interested  in  her.  I  considered  her  the 
heroine  of  a  charming  legend — a  legend  based 
perhaps  on  a  slim  foundation  of  fact.  Since 
then  I  have  learned  better.  In  my  eyes  she 
stands  to-day  second  only  to  our  Lord  as  a  wit 
ness  of  God  manifest  on  earth.  She  is  an  ir 
refutable  argument  for  Christianity,  and  since 
none  believed  more  devoutly  than  she  in  the 
Pope  of  Rome  and  the  Pope  in  Rome — there 
were  two  popes  then,  you  remember — it  fol 
lows  that  if  you  believe  her  Christianity  you 
believe  also  her  Catholicism." 

"She  was  martyred  by  her  own  church,'*  I 
pointed  out. 

"And  Christ  was  denied  and  betrayed  by  his 
own  disciples,"  added  Barclay.  "Besides,  her 
own  church  rehabilitated  her  and  made  her  a 
saint.  All  the  great  prophets  have  been  stoned 
during  their  lifetimes — it  is  only  when  they  are 
dead  that  they  receive  their  just  rewards.  It 
was  that  way  always  and  it  shall  be  that  way 
always.  It  was  that  way — it  was  that  way  last 
August,  when  another  name  was  added  to  the 
noble  army  of  martyrs." 

"Tell  me  about  him,"  I  urged. 

"It  wasn't  a  man,"  said  Barclay — "it  was  a 
girl — a  young  girl.  I  scarcely  know  how  to 
begin,  and  it  is  hard  to  find  words  with  which 
to  tell  about  it.  It  is  very  sacred  to  me,  you 
see.  I  feel  that  I  need  the  words  of  a  Matthew 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  227 

or  a  Mark,  and  I  haven't  them.  I  am,  at  best, 
only  a  war  correspondent. 

"She  was  called  Jeanne — there  is  a  coin 
cidence  there — Jeanne  Leblanc.  I  saw  her  first 
the  night  I  arrived  in  Domremy — a  wet,  windy 
night  in  late  June.  I  saw  her  last — well,  never 
mind  that  yet. 

"I  told  you  that  I  had  been  walking,  didn't 
I?  I  had  done  about  fifty  kilometres  that  day 
since  breakfast — the  last  dozen  of  them  through 
a  gusty  rain,  shot  with  white  lightning  and  laden 
with  complaints  of  thunder.  My  road  followed 
the  course  of  the  Meuse,  usually  a  lazy,  pleas 
ant  stream,  but  now  flecked  with  foam  and 
murmuring  uneasily  at  its  margins.  Road  and 
river  wound  through  vineyards  and  pasture- 
land,  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  moist  soil 
and  wet  leaves — a  cool  fragrance  that  you  never 
get  when  the  sun  is  high. 

"I  suppose  that  it  was  about  seven  o'clock — 
it  was  deep  twilight — when  I  saw  ahead  of  me 
a  handful  of  houses,  clustered  snugly  about  a 
church  spire  that  pointed  like  a  long,  slim  finger 
to  heaven.  Smoke,  white  against  the  sky,  was 
rising  from  the  chimneys,  and  yellow  squares 
of  light  marked  the  windows.  Domremy  was 
peaceful  even  in  the  stormy  night. 

"A  man  in  a  blue  blouse,  driving  a  covered 
two-wheeled  cart,  replied  to  my  inquiry  regard 
ing  lodging  by  directing  me  to  the  house  of 
Armand  Leblanc. 

"  'Across  the  bridge,  the  last  house  on  the 


228  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

left.  It  is  not  far,  m'sieu',  and  he  makes  every 
one  welcome — he  and  his  poor  girl.' 

"  'His  poor  girl?'  I  repeated,  wondering  at 
the  adjective. 

"  'Yes,'  he  answered,  nodding;  'm'sieu'  will 
discover  for  himself,  but  m'sieu'  need  not  be 
alarmed — she  is  a  little  mad,  but  quite  gentle 
and  would  not  harm  a  sparrow.  She  is  well 
loved  here,  m'sieu',  and  I  should  not  be  sur 
prised  if  she  were  nearer  to  le  bon  Dieu  than 
most  of  us  who  can  see  only  the  ground  we  walk 
on.  Yes,  m'sieu',  across  the  bridge,  the  last 
house  on  the  left.  Not  at  all,  m'sieu'.  Pas  de 
quoi.  Good  night,  m'sieu'.' 

"I  found  the  house  with  no  difficulty,  and 
Jeanne  Leblanc,  herself,  opened  the  door  at  my 
knock.  I  wish  I  could  describe  her  so  that  you 
could  see  her,  or  at  least  give  you  some  hint 
of  her.  At  the  time  I  first  saw  her  I  think  per 
haps  I  could  have  done  so,  but  now,  for  me  she 
has  come  to  be  a  symbol  of  so  much  that  she 
transcends  any  power  of  word-painting  I  pos 
sess.  A  young  Madonna?  No,  not  quite:  her 
feet  seemed  fixed  too  firmly  upon  the  earth. 
Perhaps  more  of  a  Jeanne  d'Arc — the  Jeanne 
of  Domremy,  however,  not  the  more  confident 
Jeanne  of  Orleans  and  Reims;  the  Jeanne  still 
seeing  visions,  not  the  Jeanne  fulfilling  them. 
That  was  to  come  later — the  fulfilment. 

"Her  features  are  more  easily  described — 
the  narrow,  oval  face  with  the  closely  coiffed 
golden  hair  drawn  back  smoothly  from  the  high 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  229 

white  brow;  the  ascetic  mouth,  thin  and  straight- 
lipped;  the  wide,  far-seeing  eyes,  clear  as  a 
child's,  wondering  much  and  yet  filled  with  all 
knowledge.  That  much  of  her  I  can  describe, 
I  say — the  mere  garment  of  her  soul — and  that 
much  of  her,  were  I  a  Raphael,  I  could  put  on 
canvas.  That  much  and  no  more. 

"She  opened  the  door — I  heard  her  wooden 
sabots  come  clicking  across  the  floor — and,  a 
lamp  in  her  hand,  she  immediately  stood  aside 
to  let  me  in.  Nor  did  she  ask  my  business,  nor 
who  I  was,  nor  where  I  had  come  from.  It 
was  apparent  that,  as  my  friend  of  the  covered 
cart  had  told  me,  every  one  was  welcome  at  the 
house  of  Armand  Leblanc. 

"  'You  are  very  wet,'  she  said,  'and  doubtless 
very  cold.  If  you  will  leave  your  cloak  here 
in  the  hall  and  come  into  the  kitchen  you  will 
find  supper  ready  —  and  in  the  kitchen  it  is 
warm.' 

"I  bowed  and  said  that  she  was  very  kind; 
but  she  seemed  surprised  that  I  should  consider 
it  kindness.  She  led  me  through  a  door  at  the 
back  of  the  hall  into  the  kitchen  where,  at  the 
end  of  a  pine  table,  sat  a  grizzled,  bearded  man 
in  a  peasant's  smock,  whom  I  rightly  judged  to 
be  Leblanc.  At  my  entrance  he  rose,  bowed,  and 
said :  'Soyez  le  bienvenu,  nfsieit?  Then  he 
returned  to  his  interrupted  meal. 

"Jeanne  indicated  a  chair  for  me  at  the  table, 
and,  having  served  me  in  spite  of  my  protesta 
tions,  herself  took  a  seat  opposite  her  father. 


230  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

We  ate  in  silence,  although  I  made  several  half 
hearted  attempts  to  discuss  the  weather.  At 
length,  however,  when  Jeanne  had  cleared  away 
the  dishes  and  Leblanc  had  lit  his  pipe,  they 
seemed  disposed  to  enter  into  conversation. 
But  never  did  they  question  me  as  to  my  name 
or  my  business — it  was  as  if  I  had  lived  with 
them  always,  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  family 
returned  after  a  brief  absence. 

'This  rain  should  help  the  crops,'  observed 
Pere  Leblanc,  through  the  smoke  of  his  pipe. 

'  'And  the  garden,'  added  Jeanne.  'How 
the  roses  will  welcome  it!  To-day  they  were 
so  tired.' 

"I  thought  that  her  father  regarded  her  a 
little  suspiciously  at  this — suspiciously  but  not 
unkindly. 

4  'Have  you  been  long  in  the  garden  to-day?' 
he  inquired. 

1  'Until  it  rained,'  she  answered. 

"  'You  are  fond  of  flowers,  mademoiselle  ?' 
I  put  in,  trying  to  be  pleasant.     'So  am  I.     I 
shall  look  forward  to  seeing  your  garden  to 
morrow  morning,  if  the  rain  is  over  by  then.' 
"She  shook  her  head. 

;  'The  storm  will  be  worse  to-morrow,'  she 
said,  simply.  'It  will  last  for  many  days.  God 
is  very  angry  with  the  world.' 

4  'Hush,  Jeanne,'  murmured  Pere  Leblanc. 
'You  must  not  talk  that  way  before  m'sieu'.' 
"She  did  not  seem  to  understand;  she  looked 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  231 

up  at  him  appealingly,  like  a  child  who  has  been 
reprimanded  for  no  just  reason. 

u  'I  am  sorry,'  said  she.  'Must  I  then  keep 
silent  about  that  which  is  revealed  to  me? 
Surely  it  is  not  something  to  be  ashamed  of — 
something  to  conceal/ 

"Leblanc  sighed,  glanced  at  me  meaningly, 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  Tardon,  m'sieuY  said  he;  'my  little  Jean- 
not  has  fancies:  she  imagines  things — or  else, 
indeed,  she  sees  more  than  our  eyes  can  ever 
see.'  And  he  tapped  his  forehead  with  the 
characteristic  French  gesture. 

"I  was  embarrassed  to  reply;  but  I  finally 
stammered  out  something  to  the  effect  that  the 
vision  of  the  young  is  often  clearer  and  truer 
than  that  of  us  older,  wiser  men.  Leblanc  nod 
ded,  sadly  but  acquiescently,  and  I  turned  to 
Jeanne. 

"  'Do  you  believe,'  I  asked,  'that  God  sends 
a  storm  to  show  that  He  is  angry  with  the 
world?' 

"  'I  don't  know,'  she  answered.  'But  this 
storm  He  sent  to  show  that  He  is  angry.  And 
this  storm  is  but  the  beginning.  Before  the 
year  is  over  it  will  rain  blood.' 

"Leblanc  shivered  and  crossed  himself.  She 
had  made  the  statement  quietly,  but  with  abso 
lute  conviction,  as  if  she  had  said :  'To-morrow 
we  shall  have  croiite-au-pot  for  supper.' 

"Whether  it  was  from  a  certain  morbid  curi 
osity  or  whether  even  then  I  sensed  that  she 


232  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

was  in  touch  with — well,  never  mind — at  any 
rate,  I  could  not  refrain  from  questioning  her. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?'  I  ventured. 

"She  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  in  surprise, 
and  then  she  smiled  on  me,  as  if  forgiving  my 
absurd  question,  and  said:  'Because  it's  the 
truth,  m'sieu'.  My  Voices  told  me.' 

"It  was  then  that  I  recollected  we  were  in 
Domremy ;  and  I  remembered  Jeanne  d'Arc  and 
the  Voices  that  spoke  to  her  as  she  knelt  in  the 
garden.  And  just  as  you  are  doing  now,  no 
doubt,  I  reasoned  that  this  other  Jeanne  had 
been  brought  up  on  the  legend,  had  brooded 
over  it,  and  had  clasped  it  to  her  heart  until 
she  imagined  that  to  her,  also,  there  came  an 
gels  from  heaven  to  comfort  her  and  to  guide 
her.  Yes,  I  admit  that  that  seemed  the  natural 
solution.  But  wait! 

"The  next  morning  I  awoke  to  the  sound  of 
rain  beating  on  my  casement  window.  The 
storm  had  increased  overnight,  and,  although 
there  was  neither  lightning  nor  thunder,  the 
wind  had  risen  to  an  alarming  velocity,  and  as 
I  looked  out  I  could  see  the  trees  bending  low 
before  it,  their  branches  whipping  and  thrash 
ing  like  ribbons  of  a  split  sail  in  a  hurricane. 
That  Jeanne  had  prophesied  truly  concerning 
the  storm  occupied  my  mind  but  little,  for  a 
sailor  or  a  fisherman  or  a  New  England  farmer 
could  have  done  as  much:  what  I  had  to  con 
sider  was  that  it  would  be  madness  for  me  to 
attempt  to  leave  four  walls  and  a  roof  on  such 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  233 

a  day.  So  I  determined  to  seek  out  Pere  Le- 
blanc  and  arrange  to  stay  with  him  as  a  paying 
guest  until  the  weather  should  render  my  de 
parture  possible.  And  that,  briefly,  is  how  it 
came  about  that  I  stayed  in  Domremy  and 
learned  to  know  Jeanne  Leblanc — Jeanne,  the 
Maid." 

Here  Barclay  paused  and  asked  for  a  fresh 
cup  of  coffee.  I  could  see  that  the  recital  had 
stirred  him  greatly,  and  his  hand  shook  as  he 
bore  the  cup  to  his  lips.  He  smiled  a  little  rue 
fully  when  he  saw  that  I  had  noticed  his  agita 
tion. 

"You  thought  I  was  a  man  without  nerves?" 
he  inquired.  "I  don't  know — I  don't  know. 
Lately  I  have  changed.  One  can't  look  at  the 
sun  and  not  go  blind;  and  I  have  looked  at  a 
light  that  is  far  brighter  than  that  of  a  thou 
sand  suns.  .  .  . 

"I  remained  in  Domremy  through  July.  The 
storm  lasted  all  that  week  and  half  of  the  next, 
as  if,  truly,  God  were  angry  with  the  world. 
For  the  most  part  we  stayed  indoors  around 
the  kitchen  fire,  but  Pere  Leblanc  had  chores  to 
do  about  his  farm  and  every  day  Jeanne  would 
go  out  in  the  rain  to  see  how  the  sheep  were 
faring.  Oh,  yes — she  tended  sheep,  like  Jeanne 
d'Arc  and  like  them  to  whom  the  angel  of  the 
Lord  came  to  tell  of  the  birth  in  Bethlehem. 

"One  evening,  shortly  before  dinner,  Jeanne 
came  into  the  kitchen,  where  I  sat  alone  work 
ing  at  an  article  that  I  was  writing  for  an 


234  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

American  geographical  publication.  Looking 
upi  I  perceived  immediately  that  something 
very  grave  had  occurred — something  grave  and 
yet,  judging  by  the  exaltation  in  her  eyes,  some 
thing  very  wonderful.  Although  she  and  I  had 
become  close  friends  by  now,  I  hesitated  to 
question  her,  for  I  felt — how  can  I  describe  it? 
— I  felt  that  she  had  suddenly  left  me  far  be 
hind  and  below  her:  she  had  stepped  beyond 
the  earthly  boundaries  that  hemmed  me  in. 
Imagine  two  people  imprisoned  in  the  same  cell, 
one  of  whom  is  able  occasionally,  through  the 
barred  windows,  to  obtain  a  glimpse 'of  the  blue 
sky  with  the  sun  riding  across  it,  and  the  other 
of  whom  is  so  chained  to  the  floor  that  he  can 
never  see  the  light  except  reflected  in  the  eyes 
of  his  comrade.  Do  you  understand  what  I 
mean?  I  saw  the  light  reflected  in  the  eyes  of 
Jeanne  Leblanc,  and  the  sight  of  it  awed  me 
and  held  me  silent. 

"She  crossed  over  beside  me,  sat  down  noise 
lessly,  and  passed  a  hand  across  her  forehead. 
Without  having  looked  at  me  she  knew  I  was 
there,  and,  before  long,  she  spoke. 

"  'I  have  heard  the  Voices  again,1  she  said. 
*They  came  to  me  again  in  the  garden — just 
now — St.  Michael  and  St.  Catherine — the  one 
to  warn  and  the  other  to  comfort  me.' 

"She  paused,  breathing  rapidly,  and  her  hand 
strayed  down  to  her  breast,  where  she  held  it 
pressed  against  her  heart. 

"  'It  is  almost  over,'  she  said  in  a  whisper. 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  235 

'There  is  but  a  short  month  left  me — and  yet  it 
will  be  very  glorious  to  die.  Yes,  I  must  re 
member  that — it  is  very  glorious  to  die  in  order 
that  one  may  live  forever.' 

"  'Jeanne — my  little  Jeannot,'  I  faltered — 
'you  must  not  think  such  things.  You  are  not 
going  to  die !' 

"I  was  really  frightened,  you  see — I  was 
frightened  because  I  believed  that  she  was 
speaking  the  truth.  And  she,  knowing  that  she 
was  speaking  the  truth,  was  frightened,  too, 
I  think,  for  a  little  while;  but  it  was  the  last 
time  that  I  or  any  one  else  ever  saw  fear  in  her 
eyes. 

"  'I  have  thirty-four  days  to  live,'  she  said. 
'Within  thirty-four  days  I  shall  encounter  blood, 
iron,  and  fire — and  at  the  end  I  shall  wear  a 
martyr's  crown.  Sweet  Lord,  grant  that  I  may 
wear  it  bravely  and  without  flinching!' 

"Then  she  fell  silent;  and  I  went  over  to  her 
and  knelt  by  her  chair  and  took  her  hand. 

"  'Jeanne/  I  said,  'do  you  mean  that  there 
will  be  war?' — for,  you  see,  even  then,  to 
ward  the  end  of  July,  there  were  but  few  that 
suspected  what  the  first  day  of  August  would 
bring. 

"She  nodded  without  speaking,  but  I  felt  her 
fingers  cold  and  trembling  in  mine.  Suddenly 
she  slipped  to  her  knees,  clasped  her  hands 
together,  and  closed  her  eyes.  I  knew  that  she 
was  praying. 

"When  she  had  finished  she  kissed  her  cruci- 


236  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

fix  and  murmured:  'Ta  volante  soil  faite.' 
Then  she  got  to  her  feet  and  turned  to  face  me, 
her  head  thrown  back,  her  lips  steady,  her  eyes 
serene. 

"  'Now,'  said  she,  'I  have  been  given 
strength.  God  is  good  to  his  servant.'  ' 

At  this  point  Barclay  paused  and  regarded 
me  searchingly,  as  if  striving  to  read  my  mental 
attitude  in  my  face.  To  tell  the  truth,  his  story 
had  carried  me  along  with  it,  and  I  believed 
every  word  that  he  had  said  as  implicitly  as  he, 
himself.  Besides,  Barclay  is  not  prone  to  ex 
aggeration — rather  the  contrary,  in  fact. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  listening  to  a  lunatic?" 
he  said  sharply.  "If  you  do,  just  say  so  and 
I'll  quit  talking  immediately.  Understand,  I'm 
not  trying  to  make  a  convert  out  of  you;  but 
if  you  don't  believe  that  I  am  telling  the  truth 
I'd  rather  not  go  on." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,"  I  answered —  "I  do 
believe  that  you're  telling  the  truth.  So  please 
go  on." 

"You're  not  bored  and  cynical?" 

"No,"  I  said;  "go  on." 

Apparently  satisfied  as  to  my  willingness  to 
listen  in  the  proper  frame  of  mind,  he  consented 
to  proceed.  I  doubt  very  much  if  he  would 
have  told  the  tale  to  an  incredulous  scoffer. 

"I  don't  intend,"  he  said,  "to  give  you  in  de 
tail  the  rest  of  my  conversation  with  Jeanne 
Leblanc.  All  that  she  prophesied  to  me  that 
afternoon  is  now  history;  but,  unfortunately, 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  237 

I  am  the  only  witness  that  can  testify  to  the 
fact  that  all  that  came  to  pass  she  had  foretold. 
For  example,  however,  she  said  that  her  Voices 
had  warned  her  of  the  first  of  August,  the  day 
on  which  the  rain  of  blood  was  to  begin — and 
of  the  last  of  August,  the  day  on  which  she  was 
to  die. 

"Well,  you  yourself  know — we  all  know  now 
— what  happened  on  the  first  day  of  August; 
and  I  and  a  few  others  know  what  happened  on 
the  last  day.  I  wonder  if  the  histories  will  men 
tion  it — I'm  afraid  not. 

"You  remember  the  disastrous  advance  of 
the  French  into  Alsace-Lorraine,  at  the  very 
opening  of  the  war?  You  remember  that  they 
overreached  themselves? — that  some  one  high 
in  command  blundered? — that  whole  regiments 
broke  in  disorder  and  ran?  Well,  we  in  Dom- 
remy  saw  the  advance,  and  we  saw  the  retreat. 
You  see,  the  war  caught  me  at  Domremy  with 
no  papers  and  no  passports.  In  any  case,  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  leave,  but,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  had  no  desire  to  leave :  I  wanted  to 
stay  not  only  because  I  am  a  war  correspondent 
at  times,  but  also  because  I  had  become  a  dis 
ciple  of  Jeanne  Leblanc  and  I  was  unwilling  to 
desert  her  before — well,  before  the  end  of 
August.  So  I  stayed. 

"We  saw  the  French  pass  through  Domremy, 
eager,  enthusiastic,  confident  of  success.  We 
cheered  them  loudly;  we  cried,  'Five  la  France! 
Five  la  Republique/'  and  in  our  madness,  we 


238  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

cried  also,  1A  Berlin!'  At  least,  all  of  us  did 
but  Jeanne.  She  watched  them  march  by  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  occasionally  she  would 
stop  some  young  boy,  scarcely  in  his  twenties, 
and  kiss  him  on  both  cheeks  and  whisper,  lSoyez 
fort!'  Those  were  the  boys  that  she  knew 
would  never  return. 

"There  came  the  time  when  Domremy  was 
deserted,  save  for  the  women,  the  children,  and 
the  old  men.  Pere  Leblanc  remained,  of  course, 
being  past  the  age  of  service.  Each  day  we 
waited  breathlessly  for  news  of  the  great  vic 
tory  that  we  all  felt  certain  would  be  achieved 
— all,  that  is,  except  Jeanne,  who  confided  her 
doubts  to  no  one  but  me.  Her  Voices  had  told 
her  that  the  first  assault  on  Alsace-Lorraine  was 
destined  to  failure;  and  she  added,  quite  simply: 
'It  is  I  who  have  been  chosen  to  save  it  from 
complete  disaster.' 

"When  I  questioned  her  as  to  how  this  was 
to  be  brought  about,  she  answered:  'I  do  not 
yet  know :  in  due  time  it  shall  be  revealed  to  me.' 
And  she  was  completely  confident  and  un 
troubled,  except  that  she  grieved  a  great  deal 
for  the  boys  who  were  to  lay  down  their  lives 
for  their  beautiful  France.  She  gave  not  a 
second  thought  to  her  own  life — that  was  to  be 
disposed  of  and  sacrificed  as  God  willed. 

"When  the  retreat  began,  it  seemed  at  first 
unbelievable.  It  was  impossible  that  the  French 
army  that  had  gone  out  so  confidently  should  be 
so  quickly  and  decisively  repulsed.  It  must  be 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  239 

a  mistake.  Well,  of  course  it  was  a  mistake 
— but  the  army  retreated,  nevertheless,  and 
in  some  disorder.  Although  the  news  of 
it  travelled  fast,  it  was  not  believed  until 
the  ambulances  began  to  pass  through  Dom- 
remy,  bearing  the  wounded  away  from  the  lines. 
Even  then  we  did  not  learn  the  worst,  for 
naturally  the  men  were  not  inclined  to  be  very 
communicative — rather,  they  were  furtive  and 
sullen  and  a  little  ashamed.  Most  of  them  had 
been  perfectly  willing  to  throw  away  their  lives 
that  a  victory  might  be  achieved,  and  they  were 
dazed  to  discover  that  they  had  shed  their 
blood  to  no  purpose.  But  there  were  many 
who  lay  across  the  frontier,  unburied  and  un- 
honored — and  they,  at  least,  were  spared  the 
sting  of  defeat. 

"There  is  no  need  of  my  going  deeply  into 
the  strategy  of  the  retreat.  For  one  reason, 
I  am  unable  to  judge  of  it,  since  I  gained  all  of 
my  information  second-hand  from  the  soldiers 
themselves;  and  soldiers  never  know  why  they 
advance  or  why  they  retreat.  At  any  rate,  the 
general  in  command,  in  order  to  save  two  entire 
divisions,  left  behind  a  small  rear-guard  to 
delay  the  pursuit  as  much  as  possible.  Perhaps 
the  rear-guard  did  not  know  it,  but  they  were 
simply  a  sop  thrown  to  the  enemy.  A  few  were 
left  to  be  slain  in  order  that  a  great  many  might 
live  to  slay.  That  is  war. 

"The  rear-guard  had  some  pieces  of  light  ar 
tillery  and  some  machine  guns,  and  they  worked 


240  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

them  industriously;  but,  naturally  enough,  they 
were  forced  to  give  ground — slowly,  village  by 
village,  hill  by  hill;  and  every  village  that  they 
left  became  a  black,  bleak  ruin,  and  on  every 
hill  that  they  left  the  grass  grew  red.  That, 
too,  is  war. 

"Long  before  they  crossed  the  frontier  we 
had  been  warned  to  leave  Domremy.  But  we 
did  not  leave — that  is,  not  until  later.  Jeanne 
would  not  hear  of  it,  and  I,  of  course,  knew 
why.  However,  we  did  our  utmost  to  induce 
Pere  Leblanc  to  join  one  of  the  neighbors  who 
offered  him  a  seat  in  his  cart;  but  the  old  man, 
too,  was  obstinate  and  insisted  on  remaining 
with  his  daughter. 

"  ll  am  old/  he  said — 'why  put  off  the  day? 
I  will  stay  with  Jeannot.' 

"And  so  on  the  twentieth  day  of  August  there 
remained  scarcely  a  dozen  people  in  the  village 
— among  them  an  old  man,  a  young  girl,  and  an 
alien. 

"All  morning  we  sat  and  listened  to  the 
booming  of  the  guns — heard  it  grow  louder 
and  more  spiteful — but  in  the  village  there  was 
no  sound  except  that  of  the  dogs  barking  and 
whining  in  the  empty  streets. 

"At  noon  Jeanne  went  alone  into  the  garden. 
When  she  had  gone,  Pere  Leblanc  looked  at 
me  and  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  'Her  Voices  again,'  he  said.  'Always  I 
know  by  the  look  in  her  eyes.  Ah,  m'sieu',  I  am 
afraid  for  her — if  anything  should  happen  to 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  241 

me,  who  will  be  left  to  care  for  little  Jeannot?' 

"I  went  to  him  and  laid  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"If  anything  should  happen  to  you,  Pere  Le- 
blanc,'  I  said,  'I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  be  with 
Jeannot  to  the  end.' 

"The  tears  came  into  his  dim  eyes  as  he 
turned  to  thank  me;  but,  God  knows,  I  had 
promised  little  enough. 

"When  Jeanne  returned  to  the  house,  I  knew 
at  once  that  the  great  moment  had  come.  First 
she  knelt  at  her  father's  feet  to  ask  for  his  bless 
ing;  then  she  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks  and 
bade  him  good-by. 

"  'The  time  has  come/  she  said  quietly; 
'They  need  me  and  I  am  going  to  them/ 

"Now,  it  happened  that  there  were  two 
horses  left  on  Pere  Leblanc's  farm  —  two 
horses  that  had  not  been  commandeered  for 
the  army — a  roan  horse  and  a  white  one. 
Jeanne,  of  course,  chose  the  white  one — how 
could  it  have  been  otherwise  ? — and  she  buckled 
Pere  Leblanc's  sword  about  her  waist.  It  was 
her  only  accoutrement  of  war,  and  I  doubt  if 
even  it  had  seen  service.  At  any  rate,  it  was  so 
rusty  from  years  of  idleness  that  I  was  amazed 
that  Jeanne  was  able  to  draw  it  from  its  sheath. 

"When  I  had  helped  her  saddle  the  white 
horse,  I  turned  to  the  roan.  She  watched  me 
intently,  saying  nothing  until  I  had  mounted  and 
moved  up  beside  her.  Then: 

"  'I  knew  you  would  come  with  me/  she  said. 


242  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

1  'Of  course,'  I  answered. 

"  'I  shall  not  keep  you  long,  and  no  harm 
shall  come  to  you — nor  to  my  father.  That 
much  the  Voices  have  promised  me.' 

"Where  do  we  go?'  I  asked. 

"  'To  Saint-Nicolas-du-Port.  It  is  about 
thirty  miles — not  far  from  Nancy.' 

"  'Very  well,'  I  said,  'I  am  ready.' 

"We  rode  all  that  afternoon  —  a  strange 
couple,  no  doubt,  and  one  that  in  times  less 
strange  would  have  attracted  more  attention; 
for  while  thousands  of  men,  women,  and  chil 
dren  were  traveling  in  the  opposite  direction, 
we  were  the  only  people  going  to  the  east — 
into  the  teeth  of  the  victorious  German  army. 
Many  times  we  were  warned  to  turn  back,  and 
as  many  times  Jeanne  smiled  and  shook  her 
head.  There  were  harrowing  sights  on  the 
road,  sights  from  which  I  averted  my  eyes,  but 
which  Jeanne  bore  unflinchingly. 

"  'It  but  makes  my  own  life  seem  of  less  ac 
count,'  she  said  once — 'and  my  death  the  more 
necessary.' 

Toward  evening  a  French  officer  challenged 
us,  ordering  us  back.  He  informed  us  that 
women  were  not  wanted  on  the  firing  lines,  and 
he  looked  at  me  and  my  civilian  clothes  with 
suspicion. 

"Jeanne  answered  and  said:  'Where  men 
are  suffering,  women  are  always  needed.  I  am 
going  to  take  a  little  of  their  suffering  onto  my 
self.  It  is  God's  will.' 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  243 

"The  officer  stared — I  saw  him  hesitate, 
waver,  and  acquiesce — and  then  he  saluted  her 
and  said :  'Go — and  God  keep  you.' 

"Later  in  the  night,  men  were  too  busy  with 
their  own  affairs  to  notice  us,  or  if  they  did  they 
put  us  down  for  peasants  returning  in  a  mad  at 
tempt  to  save  some  of  our  belongings.  And 
shortly  before  dawn  we  reached  Saint-Nicolas- 
du-Port,  where  the  ground  was  rocking  under 
our  feet,  and  our  voices  were  drowned  in  the 
thundering  of  the  cannon. 

"We  slept  in  a  field  outside  the  village — 
that  is,  we  lay  on  the  ground  and  tried  to  sleep; 
but,  tired  as  I  was,  I  could  not,  and  I  think  that 
Jeanne  stayed  awake  to  pray. 

"The  sun  came  up,  red  behind  the  smoke, 
glowing  like  a  devil's  eye;  and  it  looked  upon 
a  devil's  day. 

"Jeanne  and  I  arose,  stretched  our  stiff  limbs, 
and  left  the  field  for  the  village. 

"Now,  it  happened  that  the  rear-guard  which 
I  have  mentioned  were  making  a  desperate 
stand  about  four  miles  east  of  Saint-Nicolas-du- 
Port,  their  idea  being,  of  course,  that  the 
Meurthe,  on  which  the  village  is  situated,  would 
prove  a  safeguard  for  their  own  retreat  by 
providing  an  obstacle  for  the  enemy's  advance. 
Bridges  can  always  be  dynamited,  and  pontoons 
take  time  to  construct. 

"But  early  that  morning  the  enemy,  pursuing 
their  overnight  advantage,  drove  the  French 
from  their  trenches  and  hurled  them  back,  in 


244  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

disorder  and  almost  surrounded,  into  Saint- 
Nicolas.  It  was  a  dull-eyed,  crumpled-up  hand 
ful  of  men  that  we  came  upon,  there  in  the  vil 
lage — five  hundred  that  had  once  been  five 
thousand,  and  half  of  them  bleeding  from  un 
dressed  wounds,  and  all  of  them  so  exhausted 
that  death  would  have  seemed  to  them  a  blessed 
relief. 

"When  they  saw  Jeanne,  cool  and  white  and 
calm,  on  her  white  horse,  they  looked  on  her  as 
on  a  vision.  I  am  sure  that  some  of  them 
did  not  know  whether  she  was  flesh  and 
blood,  or  whether  she  was  a  figure  in  some 
dream  born  of  their  feverish,  tired  brains. 
They  parted  their  ill-formed  ranks  in  the  street 
to  let  her  ride  through;  but  when  she  was  in  the 
middle  of  them,  she  halted,  drew  the  rusty  old 
sword,  and  swung  it  over  her  head. 

"  'Courage,  mes  enfants!'  she  cried.  'Be 
strong  for  the  glory  of  France  and  the  glory 
of  God!' 

"They  turned  and  tried  to  cheer;  and  some 
of  them  passed  their  hands  across  their  eyes 
vaguely,  as  if  to  clear  their  sight. 

"Then,  briefly,  Jeanne  told  them  that  she 
had  been  sent  by  le  bon  Dieu  to  rally  them  and 
to  lead  them — that  they  must  not  be  afraid  to 
die — that  death  in  a  just  cause  is  sweet — that 
God  cared  for  them  and  would  remember. 

"They  listened  in  absolute  silence  until  she 
had  finished,  and  then — and  then — well,  they 
recognized  her,  or  at  least  they  recognized  the 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID  245 

spirit  that  animated  her,  for  they  cried  out: 
'Jeanne  d'Arc!  Jeanne,  the  MaidT  And  a 
young  lieutenant,  the  only  officer  left  to  them*, 
swung  around  and  put  his  horse  beside  hers 
and  shouted:  'Let  us  all  die,  but  let  not  the 
Germans  cross  the  Meurthe !' 

"So,  while  the  sapeurs  were  sent  to  dynamite 
the  bridges,  Jeanne  rode  out  at  the  head  of  five 
hundred  men  to  hold  the  Germans  back  until 
the  work  should  be  accomplished,  and  every 
one  of  the  five  hundred  knew  that  with  the 
bridges  went  their  only  hope  of  retreat. 

"They  went  out,  the  five  hundred  of  them — 
and  a  few  of  them  came  back,  fighting  through 
the  streets,  from  house  to  house.  When  they 
were  driven  back  to  the  square  in  front  of  the 
town  hall  they  set  up  a  machine  gun  and  played 
it  like  a  hose  on  the  close-massed  enemy;  and 
when  they  could  no  longer  work  the  gun,  they 
retreated  into  the  town  hall  itself  and  fought 
from  the  doors  and  the  windows  and  the  bal 
cony.  And  always  Jeanne  was  with  them,  un 
scathed,  but  fighting  now  on  foot,  for  the  white 
horse  had  fallen  under  her.  I  could  see  the 
dying  reaching  out  piteous,  adoring  hands  to 
touch  her  skirt  before  they  should  die;  and  I 
could  see  the  wounded,  smiling  at  her  as  they 
fell.  The  young  lieutenant  stood  by  the  machine 
gun  to  the  end,  operating  it  with  his  left  arm, 
for  his  right  hung  limp  by  his  side.  And  then 
suddenly  he  was  struck  in  the  head  and  went 
down  in  her  arms.  I  saw  her  make  a  sign  of 


246  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

the  cross  on  his  breast,  I  saw  her  lips  move  as 
she  whispered  something  to  him,  and  I  saw  him 
try  to  smile  as  he  died  in  her  arms. 

"Then  I  was  hit  and  for  a  few  minutes  I  re 
membered  no  more.  When  I  came  to  myself  I 
was  lying  in  a  doorway,  across  the  square  from 
the  town  hall.  Doubtless  it  was  thought  that 
I  was  dead,  and  no  one  had  wasted  the  time  to 
bayonet  me  in  order  to  make  certain. 

"Crawling  out  painfully  to  the  sidewalk  I 
perceived  that  the  enemy  were  still  encounter 
ing  some  resistance;  and  just  then,  from  the 
river,  I  heard  two  great  booming  crashes  and 
I  suspected  that  the  bridges  had  been  dyna 
mited. 

"In  the  square  the  bursting  shells,  or  the 
Germans'  torches,  had  set  fire  to  the  town  hall, 
and  it  was  now  a  roaring,  billowing  sheet  of 
flame.  But  from  the  upper  window  occasional 
shots  spat  out,  and  here  and  there  a  German 
soldier  fell  quickly  and  quietly  to  the  ground. 
I  wondered  if  Jeanne  was  still  in  there,  or  if, 
already,  she  had  accomplished  her  destiny. 

"And  suddenly  I  wondered  no  longer,  for 
she  appeared  on  the  balcony,  in  full  view  of  the 
entire  square.  She  stood  there,  in  Madonna 
blue,  a  crucifix  raised  up  before  her  eyes,  the 
flames  licking  hungrily  at  her  feet.  Almost  I 
saw  a  halo  about  her  head — I  think  I  did — I  am 
not  sure.  Perhaps  it  was  the  yellow  fire  behind 
her;  perhaps  it  was  the  gold  of  her  hair. 

"Ah,  she  was  very  beautiful  as  she  stood 


JEANNE,    THE   MAID 247 

there  with  the  light  in  her  eyes  of  one  who  sees 
God.  She  was  very  beautiful,  and  she  was  very 
brave — a  woman  among  a  thousand  men,  a 
saint  among  a  thousand  sinners.  As  I  looked 
I  found  that  the  tears  were  on  my  cheeks,  and 
then,  presently,  I  staggered  to  my  knees  and  be 
gan  to  pray  as  well  as  I  could. 

"There  came  a  sudden  silence  over  the 
square — a  strange,  awed  silence.  Men  looked 
at  one  another,  wonderingly,  questioningly,  ill 
at  ease,  and  receiving  no  answer,  their  eyes  re 
turned  to  the  lonely  figure  of  Jeanne,  standing 
high  above  them  on  the  balcony,  swathed  in 
flames. 

"She  made  no  outcry;  she  scarcely  moved, 
except  once  or  twice  when  I  saw  her  press  her 
lips  to  the  crucifix.  At  a  word  from  an  officer 
the  men  surged  back  a  little  from  the  heat.  The 
officer  himself  was  moving  restlessly  about  the 
square,  uncertain  what  to  do,  now  that  the  worst 
was  done.  I  don't  think  he  relished  the  respon 
sibility  of  burning  a  woman  alive;  or  perhaps 
he  too  was  not  sure  whether  it  was  a  woman  or 
a  saint.  However,  he  evidently  thought  it  best 
to  stay  and  see  the  business  out. 

"It  was  now  merely  a  question  of  minutes. 
The  front  wall  of  the  town  hall  was  shivering, 
tottering,  and  through  the  windows  we  could 
see  that  the  interior  was  red  with  flame,  shot 
through  with  black  smoke.  The  crowd  edged 
away  yet  a  few  steps  farther;  but  they  kept  their 
faces  turned  to  the  balcony. 


248  JEANNE,    THE   MAID 

"Suddenly  it  was  over.  There  came  a  leap 
ing  yellow  spurt  of  fire,  a  swirling  shroud  of 
smoke,  and  with  a  crash  of  falling  bricks  the 
wall  fell  in.  It  was  as  if  a  child  had  swept 
down  his  building-blocks  with  a  blow  of  his 
hand. 

"I  remember,  then,  that  somehow  or  other 
I  got  to  my  feet  and  cried,  'Jeanne  P  and  I  think 
that  through  all  that  mad  confusion  of  sound 
I  heard  a  voice — a  voice  that  rang  as  clearly 
and  confidently  as  a  bugle — calling:  lPour 
Dieu  et  la  patrief'  " 

Barclay  stopped  and  put  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"It  was  a  glorious  death,"  I  ventured  gently. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  he  said 
gravely:  "Yes,  it  was  a  glorious  death;  but, 
for  her,  I  believe  that  it  was  the  beginning  of 
a  glorious  life.  She  rests  with  the  saints  from 
her  labors." 


EVERY  MOVE 


EVERY   MOVE 

A  FAT  old  woman  in  a  black  apron  emerged 
from  the  shadows  of  the  chestnut-trees  in  the 
Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees,  and  began  to  set 
in  ordered  line  the  chairs  that  had  been  huddled 
together,  like  timid  animals  seeking  warmth, 
during  the  cool  hours  of  the  night.  It  was  seven 
o'clock  of  a  May  morning  in  Paris.  Will  some 
joyous  chemist  never  distil  the  essence  of  it, 
bottle  it,  and  distribute  it  gratis  as  an  antitoxin 
for  melancholy? 

The  old  woman  may  have  entertained  some 
similar  thought;  for,  as  she  worked,  she 
hummed  uncertainly  a  pleasant  little  spring 
song: 

Le  lendemain  elle  etait  souriante, 

A  sa  fenetre  fleurie;  chaque  soir 

Elle  arrosait  ses  petites  fleurs  grimpantes 

Avec  de  1'eau  de  son  arrosoir. 

When  her  task  was  fairly  accomplished,  and 
the  chairs  aligned  like  so  many  stiff  hussars, 
she  allowed  her  gaze  to  wander  beyond  the  im 
mediate  foreground.  She  noted,  with  the  quick 
disapproval  of  an  order-loving  mind,  that  the 
gravel  of  the  walk  was  sprinkled  with  cream- 
colored  blossoms  from  the  chestnut-trees  over 
head.  She  weighed  for  an  instant  the  possibil- 
251 


252  EVERY  MOVE 

ities  of  a  cleansing  broom,  but  a  Latin  sense  of 
poetry  checked  her  hand.  To  such  an  extent 
did  she  react  that  thereafter  she  was  careful 
not  to  crush  a  single  blossom,  as  she  moved 
about  on  her  clumsy,  comical  feet. 

In  the  middle  of  the  avenue,  by  the  Rond- 
Point,  a  grizzled  old  man  was  watering  the 
road.  Behind  him,  progressing  reluctantly  on 
rollers,  snaked  fifty  yards  of  rubber  hose.  Fac 
ing  the  Tuileries  he  hurled  prismatic  showers 
of  spray  into  the  very  teeth  of  the  morning  sun. 

The  old  woman  greeted  his  approach  cheer 
fully. 

"Variety  of  sausage,  hast  thou  not  enough 
stirred  up  the  dust  for  one  day?" 

"Het  la  belle"  he  answered;  ugo  seat  thy 
self  on  thy  chairs  at  two  sous  the  day!" 

"Thou  talkest,"  she  retorted  with  a  grin. 

As  he  stopped  by  the  curb  he  turned  some 
mysterious  spigot  in  such  a  way  that  the  jet  of 
spray  folded  itself  up  like  a  fan  and,  subsiding 
into  a  single  ugly  stream,  ran  disregarded  down 
the  gutter. 

The  old  man  crooked  a  bent  thumb  over  the 
shoulder  of  his  blouse. 

"There  is  one  up  there  by  the  Rond-Point," 
he  said  darkly,  "who  takes  money  from  thy 
pockets.  He  is  sitting  on  a  bench.  What  think- 
est  thou  of  that,  my  little  one — on  a  bench! 
Also,  he  has  not  moved  from  that  bench  all  the 
night.  That  vexes  thee,  hein? — when  he  should 
be  renting  a  chair  of  thee." 


EVERY   MOVE  253 

"The  camel!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  will  occupy 
myself  with  him." 

"Take  care;  he  has  the  beauty  of  a  devil." 

"So  much  the  worse  for  the  devil.  He  shall 
sit  in  one  of  my  chairs  if  he  be  Fallieres  him 
self." 

With  this  reflection  on  the  president  of  her 
republic  she  hurried  away  to  seek  out  the 
offender. 

She  found  him,  as  the  old  man  of  the  hose 
had  said,  occupying  a  bench  at  the  Rond-Point. 
That  he  was  either  asleep  or  in  misery  was  ob 
vious,  for  his  body  was  twisted  up  sideways 
on  the  bench  in  a  position  that  no  rational, 
wholly  conscious  person  would  wilfully  assume, 
and  his  arms,  hanging  limply  over  the  back  of 
the  seat,  served  as  a  precarious  pillow  for  his 
head. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  in  doubt.  She 
knew  him  at  once  for  a  gentleman :  a  tramp 
would  have  arranged  himself  more  comfortably 
and  would  have  made  use  of  his  coat  for  bed 
ding.  Besides,  his  hair  was  cut  very  short  and 
it  was  black,  and  it  curled  in  a  manner  distinctly 
patrician.  A  shrewd  judge  of  social  strata  was 
the  old  woman. 

A  closer  inspection  revealed  him  an  Anglo- 
Saxon;  he  was  smooth-shaven;  his  shoes  were 
well  shaped;  he  was  broad  of  shoulder  and 
narrow  of  waist;  his  trousers  were  turned  up  as 
though  they  had  been  and  always  would  be,  and 


254  EVERY  MOVE 


there  was  unmistakable  breeding  in  the  knot  of 
his  cravat. 

Noting  the  tired,  pathetic  lines  on  his  face, 
she  resolved  not  to  disturb  him,  and  was  in  the 
act  of  turning  away  when  he  stirred  and  sat 
upright. 

He  looked  about  him,  dazed,  gave  a  hol 
low  laugh,  felt  through  his  pockets  anxiously 
and  swore  softly  and  with  perfect  resignation. 
The  old  woman  moved  up  in  front  of  him  and, 
standing  with  her  hands  on  her  hips,  addressed 
him  in  a  friendly  fashion. 

"Monsieur  has  not  need  of  a  chair? — it 
would  be  more  comfortable,  and  at  two  sous 
a  day — "  Her  gesture  hinted  that  two  sous 
was  a  sum  not  to  be  mentioned  between  gentle 
men  and  ladies. 

But  he  shook  his  head  and  forced  a  crooked 
smile. 

"I  haven't  enough  to  hire  a  chair  for  five 
minutes,"  he  said  in  correct,  careful  French. 
"Otherwise  I  should  not  have  chosen  this  bench 
for  a  night's  rest.  It  is  hard  as  charity — or  is 
it  'cold  as  charity1  that  one  should  say?" 

The  old  woman  pleaded  ignorance  of  the 
appropriate  adjective;  but,  scenting  mystery, 
she  commenced  to  catechise. 

"Monsieur  says  that  he  has  passed  the  night 
on  this  bench  ?  Poor  monsieur !  It  is  scandal 
ous!" 

"Is  it  not?"  he  agreed. 

"And  monsieur  has  no  money?" 


EVERY  MOVE  255 

"Not  a  cent." 

"Monsieur  has  been  robbed,  then?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "monsieur  has  been 
robbed.  A  porter  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  took 
all  my  coppers,  a  taxi-auto  to  my  hotel  took  all 
my  silver,  and  two  bottles  of  champagne  at  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  took  my  gold." 

"And  the  bank-notes?" 

"Oh,  the  bank-notes  were  taken  without  my 
consent.  In  their  case  I  cannot  put  my  finger 
on  the  thief;  but  should  you  ask  me  to  guess, 
why,  then,  I  might  inform  you  that  there  was  a 
lovely  lady  dressed  all  in  salmon  pink  with 
whom  T  ^  rtltzed  at  the  Bal  des  Coryphees  last 
night,  up  .here  by  the  Place  Pigalle.  I  recollect 
that  she  pinned  a  white  carnation  on  my  lapel, 
and  was  agreeably  slow  about  it.  Then,  when 
I  looked  for  her  later " 

"She  had  gone !"  finished  the  old  woman. 

"Exactly;  and  she  doubtless  is  using  seven 
five-hundred  franc  notes  for  curl-papers  at  the 
present  moment." 

"The  cow!"  ejaculated  the  old  woman 
coarsely.  "But  monsieur  can  get  no  money 
from  the  bankers?  Monsieur  has  no  friends 
in  Paris?  Monsieur  cannot  borrow  from  his 
hotel?" 

The  young  man  smiled. 

"I  know  no  one  in  Paris,"  he  explained.  "As 
for  my  hotel,  they  are  more  likely  to  attach  my 
baggage  than  to  advance  me  a  louis.  But  I 
am  keeping  you.  If  I  am  not  mistaken  those 


256  EVERY   MOVE 


two  gentlemen  are  contemplating  your  chairs 
with  a  view  to  sitting  on  them." 

The  woman  turned  to  follow  his  gaze. 

"That/'  she  explained,  "is  Monsieur  Vilbert 
— very  rich — an  old  client  of  mine.  He  is  the 
little  thin  one  with  the  gray  mustache  brushed 
like  William's." 

"Like  William's?" 

"Yes,  like  that  of  William  the  German.  I 
will  go  to  bid  him  good  morning.  I  know  him 
well;  but  his  friend,  the  big  one,  I  do  not  re 
member  to  have  seen  before.  It  must  be  that 
he  does  not  sit  often  in  the  Champs-Elysees." 

Left  to  himself,  the  young  man  stretched  and 
rose  to  his  feet.  He  slapped  the  dust  out  of 
his  clothes  and  shook  his  coat  viciously  in  a 
vain  endeavor  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  from  it. 
A  night  on  a  bench  in  the  open  air  is  a  poor 
valet. 

As  he  stooped  for  his  straw  hat,  which  he  had 
placed  under  the  bench,  he  heard  footsteps  on 
the  gravel  behind  him.  He  turned,  hat  in  hand, 
to  see  Monsieur  Vilbert  and  his  friend  standing 
at  his  elbow.  Monsieur  Vilbert  inspected  him 
critically,  head  to  one  side,  thumbs  resting  in 
the  upper  pockets  of  his  waistcoat,  dapper  little 
feet  turned  out  at  right  angles.  Monsieur  Vil- 
bert's  friend  inspected  him  ruminatively,  sharp 
eyes  narrowed  to  slits  in  his  round,  red  face, 
fat  white  hands  clasped  across  a  convex  ab 
domen,  patent-leather  feet  planted  far  apart. 

Then  Monsieur  Vilbert  looked  at  his  friend 


EVERY  MOVE  257 

and  they  both  nodded;  and  Monsieur  Vilbert 
gave  a  nervous,  energetic  twist  to  his  gray  mus 
tache,  and  his  friend  drew  a  sleek  hand  across 
his  smooth-shaven  chin.  And  Monsieur  Vil 
bert  spoke  in  French. 

"What  a  beautiful  morning!"  is  what  he  said. 

The  young  man  regarded  one  and  then  the 
other,  puzzled,  surprised,  not  certain  that  he 
was  pleased. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  finally,  "one  cannot  com 
plain  of  it." 

The  two  Frenchmen  appeared  to  ponder  the 
words  as  though  they  had  been  sibylline.  Then 
they  nodded  once  more,  omine  fausto. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Vilbert,  "my  friend,  the 
lady  who  rents  the  chairs,  informs  me  that  you 
are  a  stranger  here  in  Paris  and  that  you — that 
you  have  not  been  made  to  feel  at  home;  in 
short,  that  you  have  been  robbed.  Pardon  the 
brutality  of  the  word,  will  you  not?" 

"But  certainly,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"Good!"  said  Vilbert. 

"Good!"  echoed  his  friend. 

"And  now,"  continued  Vilbert,  "  I  pray  you 
to  permit  me  to  present  myself.  I  am  called 
Etienne  Vilbert,  and  this  is  my  friend  and  as 
sociate,  Monsieur  Hippolyte  Dieudonne." 

They  bowed  graciously,  and  the  young  man 
could  do  no  less. 

"I  am  overcome,"  he  said. 

"You  have  not  heard  the  names  before?" 
asked  Vilbert,  it  seemed  a  little  anxiously. 


258  EVERY  MOVE 


"You  must  forgive  me,"  answered  the  young 
man,  "if  I  admit  that  I  have  not.  I  come  from 
America,  and  we  Americans  know  very  little 
of  your  country  and  even  less  of  its  great  men. 
Nevertheless  I  repeat  that  I  am  honored,  and 
I  beg  to  give  you  my  name  in  return.  I  am 
called  Austin  Waide." 

"Well,  then,  Monsieur  Waide,"  said  Vil- 
bert  briskly,  when  he  and  Dieudonne  had  duly 
bowed  once  more  and  murmured  their  enchant 
ment,  "if  you  will  do  us  the  honor  of  breakfast 
ing  with  us  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  we  shall 
be  able  to  put  before  you  a  proposition  that  will 
be  of  advantage  to  all  of  us.  Do  you  accept, 
monsieur?" 

Austin  laughed. 

"I  certainly  accept  the  breakfast,"  said  he] 
"and  as  for  the  proposition — why,  I  am  willing 
to  do  anything  short  of  a  crime  to  earn  my 
living." 

"We  contemplate  nothing  criminal,"  Dieu 
donne  assured  him.  "However,  the  work  may 
be  exciting  and  not  unconnected  with  dan- 
ger " 

He  caught  Vilbert's  eye  and  stopped  abrupt 
ly.  Vilbert  hailed  an  open  cab  and  they 
drove  out  of  the  Avenue  du  Bois  to  the  Pre 
Catelan.  There,  under  the  trees  in  front  of  the 
dairy,  they  breakfasted  deliciously  on  fresh 
eggs  and  milk  and  wild  strawberries. 

When  they  had  finished,  Vilbert  pushed  back 
his  iron  chair  and  offered  a  brand  of  gov- 


EVERY  MOVE  259 

ernment  cigarettes  from  a  small  mauve 
package. 

"I  patronize  home  industries,"  he  remarked. 
"Perhaps  you,  Dieudonne,  would  prefer  some 
thing  more  Oriental,  with  a  Turkish  name  and 
a  sensuous  box." 

Then  he  turned  directly  to  Austin. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "you  are  young,  hand 
some,  well-built,  athletic,  like  the  majority  of 
your  countrymen.  Like  the  majority  of  your 
countrymen,  too,  I  take  it  that  you  are  not 
afraid  of  danger." 

"I  have  never  wilfully  avoided  it,"  answered 
Austin,  smiling. 

"Good!"  said  Vilbert. 

"Good!"  said  Dieudonne. 

"I  think  we  can  use  you,"  Vilbert  continued. 
"The  hours  will  be  short;  you  will  be  released 
to-night  in  time  for  your  aperitif,  and  the  salary 
will  be  anywhere  from  one  hundred  francs  to 
five  hundred,  depending  entirely  on  the  way 
you  acquit  yourself  and  the  success  of  what,  for 
us,  is  something  of  an  experiment.  Have  I 
made  myself  understood?  If  so,  I  await  your 
answer." 

"One  moment,"  said  Austin.  "I  understand 
that  you  offer  me  from  twenty  to  one  hundred 
dollars  for  one  day's  work.  Can  you  give  me 
no  more  definite  idea  of  the  character  of  the 
work?" 

Vilbert  looked  at  his  associate  and  they  both 
shook  their  heads. 


260  EVERY  MOVE 

"No,  monsieur,"  answered  Dieudonne 
firmly,  "that  is  one  of  the  conditions:  a  blissful 
ignorance  on  your  part  is  indispensable  to  our 
success.  We  may  but  give  you  a  hint:  be  sur 
prised  at  nothing;  behave  as  a  gentleman  should, 
and, — well,  do  not  be  afraid  to  defend  your 
self  as  well  as  you  are  able.  Moreover,  la 
boxe  Anglaise  is  renowned;  need  I  say  more?" 

"Need  we  say  more?"  echoed  Vilbert  dryly, 
tossing  away  his  cigarette  and  rising.  "And  so, 
Monsieur  Waide,  if  you  say  'yes,'  you  will  ac 
company  us  back  to  Paris  in  a  taxi-auto;  if  you 
say  'no,'  we  part  regretfully,  enchanted,  how 
ever,  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of  your  society 
at  our  little  breakfast." 

"No  bouquets,"  said  Austin  with  a  laugh.  "I 
say  'yes.'  " 

"Good!"  cried  Vilbert 

"Good!"  cried  Dieudonne. 
|  They  paid  their  bill  and  walked  through  the 
•uacherie,  Dieudonne  patting  the  sleek,  fat  cows 
and  throwing  bits  of  paper  at  the  voracious 
goats.  He  was  as  amused  as  a  child.  Vilbert, 
however,  serious  and  impatient,  plucked  at  his 
arm,  urging  him  to  be  off. 

;  As  they  drove  back  through  the  Bois,  the  sun 
was  well  up  in  the  sky,  and  the  roads  and  bridle 
paths  had  assumed  the  animation  that  is  bred 
in  Paris  of  a  May  morning.  Wonderfully 
equipped  cavaliers,  dressed  in  amazing  English 
breeches  and  coats,  cantered  dashingly  but  un 
certainly  at  the  sides  of  their  amazones,  as  the 


EVERY  MOVE  261 

French  term  them.  Buxom  nounous,  with  broad 
ribbons  fluttering  from  their  caps,  were  out  al 
ready  with  their  perambulators,  airing  the  chil 
dren  of  the  rich  and  keeping  furtive  eyes  out 
for  picturesque  zouaves  or  gallant  guardsmen. 
In  France  it  is  not  the  police  who  distract  the 
nursemaids,  but  the  army. 

Conversation  between  the  three  men  in  the 
taxi  flagged.  Dieudonne,  making  several  half 
hearted  attempts  at  Gallic  wit,  subsided  quickly 
under  Vilbert's  severe  frown.  Austin  was  calm, 
indifferent,  almost  bored.  He  was  beginning 
to  doubt  the  sanity  of  the  two  Frenchmen;  but 
then — he  had  always  been  brought  up  to  doubt 
the  sanity  of  all  Frenchmen.  There  still  per 
sists  a  class  in  America  to  whom  a  Frenchman 
is  a  crazy  person  who  eats  frogs  and  snails  and 
who  wears  an  imperial. 

Vilbert,  leaning  from  the  window  at  inter 
vals,  directed  the  course.  They  rounded  the 
arch  at  the  Place  de  1'Etoile  and  turned  down 
the  Champs-Elysees.  At  the  Place  de  la  Con 
corde  they  took  the  Rue  Royale  to  the  Made 
leine,  and  then,  to  the  right  on  the  Boulevard 
as  far  as  the  Opera  House.  Here  they  swung 
across  into  the  Boulevard  Haussmann  and  fol 
lowed  it  to  its  inception.  They  took  the  last 
street  on  their  left  and  stopped  at  the  house 
next  to  the  bureau  de  poste. 

Vilbert,  who  had  given  the  driver  a  gold 
piece  before  the  taxi  drew  up  at  the  curb, 
grasped  Austin  sharply  by  the  arm  and  hurried 


262  EVERY  MOVE 

him  through  a  high,  dark  entrance,  the  heavy, 
wooden  doors  of  which  stood  open.  Austin 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  somber  courtyard  beyond, 
paved  with  stone  and  decorated  with  dwarf 
trees  in  green  pots.  Then  he  was  led  to  the 
right  through  a  glass  door  into  a  large  hall. 
While  they  waited  in  front  of  an  elevator-shaft 
he  had  time  to  look  about  him. 

The  hall  was  panelled  in  mahogany  halfway 
up  to  the  ceiling,  and  the  ceiling,  Austin  cal 
culated,  was  nearly  twenty  feet  high.  Above  the 
panelling  hung  rich,  soft  tapestries,  illuminated 
dimly  by  clusters  of  heavily  shaded  electric 
lights.  At  intervals  stood  gorgeous,  barbaric 
suits  of  mail,  erect  and  uncannily  alive.  Fast 
ened  to  the  panels  were  inlaid  shields  and 
swords  and  graceful  lances,  all  beautifully 
wrought  —  the  plunder  of  a  mediaeval  court. 
The  floor  was  marble-paved,  in  squares  of  black 
and  white,  and  carved  marble  benches  stood  in 
the  corners. 

Somehow,  in  spite  of  the  insignia  of  war,  it 
gave  to  Austin  the  impression  of  a  cathedral 
of  the  Middle  Ages — some  chapel,  perhaps,  de 
signed  for  a  crusader's  tomb,  filled  with  the 
arms  by  which  he  had  sought  to  hew  his  way 
to  salvation.  It  lacked  but  the  odor  of  incense 
and  the  religious  light  of  a  stained  window  to 
complete  the  illusion. 

The  lift,  which  had  been  descending  silently 
and  slowly,  untenanted,  and  propelled  by  some 
unseen  hand  on  some  unseen  button,  now 


EVERY  MOVE  263 

reached  the  ground  with  a  muffled  click  and  a 
sigh  of  relief.  The  two  Frenchmen  motioned 
to  Austin  to  enter.  When  they  had  followed 
him,  so  small  was  the  space  within  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  they  could  close  the  doors. 

Then  Vilbert  touched  the  topmost  of  eight 
ivory  buttons  on  a  panel,  and  the  tiny  compart 
ment  hesitated,  wheezed,  and  began  once  more 
its  laborious  motion  upward,  silently  as  before, 
save  for  the  dull  click  at  each  landing. 

"Remember,"  warned  Vilbert  earnestly, 
"you  are  expected  to  do  exactly  as  you  are  bid 
den  and  to  ask  no  questions.  It  is  possible  that 
some  things  may  seem  to  you — how  shall  I  say 
it? — bizarre,  extravagant.  But  it  is  not  for 
you  to  question  our  methods.  If  you  conduct 
yourself  satisfactorily  to  us  your  reward  shall 
be  satisfactory  to  you." 

"Very  well,"  answered  Austin  cheerfully, 
"I  am  prepared  for  the  worst." 

"Good!"  said  Vilbert. 

"Good!"  said  Dieudonne. 

Austin  counted  six  landings  and  the  lift 
stopped  abruptly  at  the  seventh.  Vilbert  led  the 
way  down  a  long  corridor,  flanked  by  numer 
ous  doors,  all  closely  shut.  There  was  no  win 
dow  in  the  corridor,  but  it  was  lighted  at  in 
tervals  by  yellow  electric  lights.  The  bareness 
of  its  walls  and  ceiling  and  the  multiplicity  of 
its  doors  tended  to  accentuate  its  length.  It 
might  almost  have  been  the  corridor  of  some 
huge  jail. 


264  EVERY   MOVE 


Austin  fancied  that  he  heard  voices  behind 
some  of  the  doors;  but  he  was  hurried  along 
so  peremptorily  that  he  could  not  be  certain, 
and  the  three  pairs  of  feet,  echoing  loudly  on 
the  stone  floor  beneath  them,  drowned  all  minor 
sounds. 

At  a  door  numbered  113  they  paused,  and 
Vilbert,  drawing  a  pass  key  from  his  pocket, 
turned  the  lock  and  entered  the  room.  Dieu- 
donne  and  Austin  followed. 

It  was  a  small  rectangular  room,  uninterest 
ing,  banal.  White  plaster  walls  and  ceiling,  a 
high,  small  window  framing  a  patch  of  blue 
sky,  a  long  wooden  bench,  a  row  of  hooks  on 
the  wall,  and  a  full-length  mirror  swinging  in  a 
wooden  frame.  Nothing  more. 

"Wait  here,"  commanded  Vilbert  briefly, 
and  pointed  to  the  bench.  Then  he  turned  to 
Dieudonne,  beckoned  him  to  the  door,  and  mut 
tered  directions  in  his  ear. 

"Tell  Roxane  we  have  found  him,  and  tell 
her  the  circumstances.  Warn  her  to  be  ready. 
I  will  call  Luzech  to  come  and  prepare  him." 

Austin  heard  but,  hearing,  was  none  the 
wiser.  The  whole  affair  struck  him  as  far 
fetched,  unduly  mysterious.  If  there  was  dan 
ger  to  be  encountered,  why  did  they  not  point 
out  the  danger  and  bid  him  face  it?  They  were 
behaving,  to  his  eyes,  like  opera-bouffe  con 
spirators.  They  needed  but  masks  and  dark 
lanterns  and  low  music. 

When  they  had  left  him  he  noted  that  they 


EVERY  MOVE  265 

closed  the  door  and  that  the  lock  snapped  back 
at  its  closing.  He  shrugged  his  broad  shoul 
ders  and  listened  patiently  to  the  sound  of  their 
feet  diminishing  in  the  distance  down  the  cor 
ridor. 

Walking  listlessly  over  to  the  window,  he 
looked  out,  his  chin  on  the  level  with  the  sill. 
From  that  position  he  could  see  nothing  save 
the  mansard  roofs  of  houses  several  blocks 
away  and,  over  on  the  right  and  beyond,  the 
slender  line  of  the  Eiffel  Tower,  bayoneting  the 
blue  sky. 

"An  excellent  bird's-eye  view  of  Paris,"  he 
remarked.  "It  would  look  well  on  a  post-card 
to  send  home  to  Kansas  City.  But  the  room 
has  none  of  the  modern  conveniences;  I  doubt 
if  I  stay  long." 

He  sat  down  on  the  low  bench  and  studied 
his  shoes  and  his  finger-nails.  Still  no  interrup 
tion  occurred.  The  silence  became  annoying 
and,  for  the  first  time  that  day,  he  lost  his  per 
fect  serenity.  He  felt  through  his  pockets  for 
a  cigarette,  found  none,  and,  resorting  finally 
to  that  manifestation  of  impatience  to  which  all 
caged  beasts  come  sooner  or  later,  he  paced  the 
room  from  corner  to  corner,  from  wall  to  wall. 

Some  one  must  have  come  noiselessly  up  the 
corridor,  for  of  a  sudden  he  heard  the  lock 
snap  and  his  door  opened  inward.  He  turned 
and,  instinctively  on  the  defensive,  put  his  back 
to  the  wall.  What  he  saw  in  the  doorway 
startled  him  for  an  instant;  and  then  he  smiled 


266  EVERY  MOVE 

appreciatively.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true :  it 
smacked  of  the  "Arabian  Nights." 

A  huge  figure  blocked  the  doorway:  a  man 
as  black  and  as  shiny  as  hard  coal;  and  he  was 
naked  to  his  waist.  On  his  head  was  a  fantastic, 
turbanlike  affair;  in  his  ears  hung  two  golden 
crescent  rings,  and  about  his  loins  was  wrapped 
a  leopard  skin,  rather  worn  and  frayed.  His 
feet  and  legs  were  as  bare  as  his  broad  black 
chest,  and  his  arms  were  decorated  only  with 
gold  bracelets,  an  inch  wide. 

Over  one  arm,  however,  hung  a  pile  of  won 
derfully  colored  fabrics,  all  purples  and  scarlets 
and  greens  and  blues,  embroidered  with  jewels 
and  gold.  Advancing  gravely  into  the  room, 
he  laid  them  on  the  bench,  and  Austin  perceived 
that  they  constituted  a  man's  garments — the 
garments,  possibly,  of  an  Eastern  prince. 

The  black  bowed  low  with  arms  outstretched, 
his  features  set  stolidly,  unresponsive  to  Aus 
tin's  frank  smile.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  gar 
ments  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  and  indicated 
that  Austin  was  to  clothe  himself  in  them  forth 
with.  , 

"Very  well,  my  good  Nubian,"  agreed  the 
American;  "your  wish  is  my  law." 

He  examined  the  apparel  with  interest  ,and 
amusement.  A  pair  of  gold  slippers,  pointed 
and  turned  up  at  the  toes  in  a  curve  like  the  vol 
utes  of  an  Ionic  capital;  close-fitting  scarlet 
tights  with  jeweled  garters  to  clasp  about  them 
below  the  knee;  a  wonderful  purple  cloak  that 


EVERY  MOVE  267 

hung  loosely  to  the  thighs  and  was  edged  with 
ermine  at  the  collar  and  around  the  wide  sleeves 
and  was  embroidered  gorgeously  with  gold  in 
strange  Oriental  designs;  a  broad  scarlet  girdle 
to  bind  it  at  the  waist,  heavy  with  jewels  and 
tasselled  with  gold  rope,  and,  finally,  a  close- 
fitting  turban,  clasped  at  the  forehead  with  a 
huge  purple  amethyst. 

Slowly  and  wonderingly  Austin  got  out  of 
his  own  clothes,  and  slowly  and  wonderingly, 
with  the  aid  of  the  silent  Nubian,  got  into  this 
finery  of  the  East. 

Once  dressed,  he  surveyed  himself,  not  with 
out  approval,  in  the  tall  mirror.  His  dark 
complexion,  he  noted,  lent  itself  remarkably 
well  to  the  costume :  he  was  every  inch  a  Per 
sian,  if,  indeed,  that  was  what  the  costume  in 
tended  him  to  be. 

Drawing  himself  up  to  his  greatest  height 
he  found  that  he  was  able  to  look  the  giant 
Nubian  fairly  in  the  eyes.  This  pleased  him, 
filled  him  with  a  subtle  satisfaction.  So  with 
all  of  his  national  audacity  he  slapped  himself 
soundly  on  the  chest  and  grinned  and  cried: 
"Behold  the  great  Persian  lamb!  Now  bring 
on  your  Scheherazades — all  there  are  in  the 
harem!'1 

The  black  regarded  him  gravely,  almost  pity 
ingly,  and  maintained  an  ominous  silence;  but 
he  bowed  low  and  led  the  way  through  the 
door. 

Standing  in  the  corridor  was  Vilbert,  nerv- 


268  EVERY  MOVE 

ously  twisting  the  pointed  ends  of  his  mustache 
into  spirals.  At  sight  of  Austin,  arrayed  in 
glory,  he  nodded  and  gave  a  short  grunt  of 
satisfaction. 

"Good!"  he  said. 

Dieudonne  was  not  present  to  echo  the  mono 
syllable. 

The  little  Frenchman,  slipping  his  arm 
through  Austin's,  led  him  slowly  down  the  cor 
ridor.  The  Nubian  followed,  mute,  behind 
them. 

uMy  friend,"  said  Vilbert  huskily,  "it  now 
depends  but  on  you.  I  have  done  all  that  I  can 
to  make  you  a  success.  I  may  do  no  more. 
Remember,  keep  your  head  cool  and  your  hands 
ready  and  your  muscles  supple.  Fight,  if  you 
must;  and  if  you  fight,  fight  well.  Meanwhile, 
do  as  you  are  told.  It  is  possible  that  I  shall 
be  watching  you ;  in  which  case  pretend  that  we 
have  never  met.  It  will  be  better  so.  Au 
revoir.  I  shake  your  hand  and  I  wish  you  all 
success." 

Monsieur  Vilbert,  his  voice  unsteady  with 
real  feeling,  wrung  his  hand  as  though  he  were 
sending  him  to  his  death.  Austin  could  not  but 
be  moved  by  the  display  of  emotion. 

"Good-by,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "and  do  not 
agitate  yourself  on  my  account.  I  have  been 
in  some  pretty  tight  places  before  now.  Have 
you  ever  tried  to  cross  Broadway  down  by 
Herald  Square  during  the  rush  hour?  This 
business  of  yours  is  all  very  mysterious,  of 


EVERY   MOVE  269 

course,  but  at  least  we  are  in  twentieth-century 
Paris." 

"You  will  not  think  so  long,"  remarked  Vil- 
bert,  and  turned  on  his  heel  without  another 
word. 

Down  the  corridor  the  Nubian  led  the  way, 
respectfully,  solicitously,  as  one  would  lead  an 
attractive  lamb  to  the  sacrifice.  There  seemed 
to  be  miles  of  corridor. 

Finally,  turning  abruptly  to  the  left,  they 
came  into  a  vaulted  atrium,  surrounded  by 
glistening  marble  columns  that  supported  By 
zantine  arches.  At  this  point  the  Nubian 
paused  and  stepped  aside  in  order  that  Austin 
might  see  into  the  hall  beyond. 

Austin  looked  and  exclaimed:     "My  God!" 

The  Nubian  put  his  finger  warningly  to  his 
lips. 

In  front  of  them  stretched  an  enormous 
court,  crowded  with  restless  people  moving 
quietly  backward  and  forward,  in  different  di 
rections,  in  and  out,  like  a  wheat-field  in  a  shift 
ing  wind.  An  arched  colonnade  extended  along 
the  rear  of  this  courtyard  for  a  space  of  per 
haps  fifty  yards;  then  it  turned  on  itself  at  right 
angles  and  continued  in  that  direction  beyond 
Austin's  range  of  vision  from  where  he  stood 
in  the  atrium.  Many  of  the  arch  openings  were 
closed  with  exquisite  tapestries;  others  were 
filled  with  the  wanton  colors  of  tropical  foliage 
and  fruits,  In  two  of  them  fountains  tossed  up 


270  EVERY  MOVE 

jets  of  water  that  hung,  perpendicular  in  the 
air,  like  silver  wands. 

Over  this  vast  courtyard,  and  supported  by 
the  colonnades,  stretched  a  flat  roof  of  white, 
transparent  glass,  set  in  large  rectangular  lights, 
through  which  the  May  sun  poured  as  through 
the  roof  of  some  huge  greenhouse,  where 
mammoth  plants  were  being  nursed  to  unholy 
size. 

At  the  back,  near  the  centre  of  the  rear  colon 
nade,  stood  a  dais,  raised  on  two  low,  marble 
steps,  carpeted  with  a  rug  of  tawny  yellow  and 
pastel  blue;  and  on  the  dais  was  a  broad  couch 
of  cloth  of  gold,  and  on  the  couch,  half-seated, 
half-reclining,  languidly,  sensuously,  was  a 
woman. 

"My  God!"  repeated  Austin. 

Again  the  Nubian  motioned  for  silence. 

She  was  the  focus  of  the  crowd:  about  her 
the  others  backed  and  filled  and  circled  and 
flew  like  bits  of  steel  about  a  magnet.  Four 
female  slaves,  their  black  skins  shining  in  the 
heat,  fanned  her  with  long  ostrich-plumes — 
fanned  her  rhythmically,  monotonously,  perpet 
ually.  A  score  of  men,  counterparts  of  Aus 
tin's  Nubian,  kept  grim  watch  on  either  side  of 
her  throne,  their  hands  crossed  on  the  hilts  of 
their  naked,  evil  swords. 

At  her  feet,  in  a  semicircle,  sat  a  dozen  danc 
ing  girls,  veiled  to  their  eyes,  stretching  their 
graceful  limbs  on  the  rugs  and  the  soft  skins 
that  covered  the  cold  marble  of  the  floor.  As 


EVERY  MOVE  271 

Austin  looked,  one  of  them  was  dancing,  her 
body  motionless  above  the  waist,  save  for  the 
slim  arms  tfiat  curved  and  coiled,  her  flat  palms 
making  strange,  abnormal  angles  with  her 
wrists. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  the  dancing  girls  the 
court  was  bare  in  front  of  the  throne ;  but  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left  knelt  a  score  of  men  and 
women,  clad  in  Persian  dress  and  beating  ab 
stractedly  on  brazen  cymbals  or  on  muffled  tam 
bours;  and  through  all  the  dull  din  that  they 
made  crept  another  sound,  a  grinding,  mechan 
ical  sound,  like  the  purr  of  a  smooth  motor  or 
the  buzz  of  a  dentist's  drill. 

But  Austin  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  the 
woman  on  the  couch.  He  had  read  of  vam 
pires,  and  he  wondered  if,  perhaps,  she  was  not 
of  their  breed.  Her  face  embodied  all  the 
cruelty,  all  the  lust,  of  the  baneful  women  that 
have  marred  history.  As  he  looked  on  her  he 
shivered,  and  yet  he  was  not  cold;  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  doubted  himself  and  his 
own  courage. 

She  was  dressed  all  in  white:  white,  loose. 
Turkish  trousers,  gathered  at  her  ankles  with 
pearls;  white  pointed  slippers  curving  up  at  the 
toes;  a  broad,  white  girdle  beneath  her  breasts, 
which  held  in  place  the  thin  veil  that  draped 
her  narrow  shoulders  and  which  hung  down  to 
her  knees,  weighted  with  pearls.  Pearls  at  her 
wrists,  pearls  on  her  long,  slender  fingers,  pearls 
wound  in  profusion  through  her  black  hair. ; 


272  EVERY   MOVE 

Her  face  was  unveiled.  Alas,  for  the  peace  of 
man! 

Austin  looked  and  saw  a  narrow,  oval  face, 
white  as  paper;  a  broad,  full  mouth  with  lips 
painted  dark  vermilion  —  cruel,  pitiless  lips, 
fretting  and  twisting  in  front  of  small  teeth 
that  were  too  white  and  too  regular  to  seem 
real.  Black,  straight  eyebrows  almost  met 
over  the  thin  nose  and,  beneath  the  eyebrows, 
black  eyes  gleamed  and  darted,  restlessly,  furt 
ively,  under  narrow  lids  stained  with  indigo. 

Austin  had  read  of  such  women,  had  seen 
fantastic  drawings  of  such  women;  indeed,  he 
remembered  that  such  a  woman  as  this  adorned 
the  pasteboard  boxes  of  a  brand  of  cigarettes 
luringly  called  Persian  Favorites.  But  to  be 
face  to  face  with  such  a  woman,  breathing  the 
same  heavy,  perfumed  air  that  she  breathed — ? 
that  was  a  different  matter.  It  gave  him  a 
strange  feeling  about  his  heart,  as  though  he 
had  smoked  too  many  of  those  cigarettes.  He 
could  not  explain  it. 

Suddenly,  while  he  watched,  the  dancing  girl 
fell  exhausted,  her  forehead  on  the  floor  in 
front  of  the  dais.  At  a  nod  from  the  woman 
on  the  couch,  two  slaves  lifted  her  in  their  arms 
and  carried  her  away,  panting  and  writhing, 
out  through  one  of  the  arches  of  the  colonnade. 

Forthwith  a  third  attendant  salaamed,  and, 
although  Austin  could  not  hear  the  spoken 
words,  it  was  obvious  from  his  gestures  that  he 
announced  the  presence  of  some  one  in  the 


EVERY  MOVE  273 

atrium.  The  woman  in  white  clapped  her  hands 
and,  led  by  the  giant  Nubian,  Austin  marched 
through  the  crowd  that  made  a  lane  for  him 
clear  to  the  marble  steps.  There  the  black  drew 
away  a  few  paces,  leaving  him  face  to  face  with 
the  woman.  His  heart  beat  like  a  hammer 
while  she  surveyed  him  between  her  narrowed 
eyelids. 

At  length  she  stretched  out  a  listless,  white 
hand  to  be  kissed.  Under  other  circumstances 
Austin  might  well  have  grasped  it  heartily  in 
his  own,  given  it  an  emphatic  shake,  and  mur 
mured:  "Glad  to  meet  you." 

But  the  spell  being  upon  him,  he  leaned  over 
it  and  kissed  it  gracefully  enough. 

The  vermilion  lips  parted  in  a  slow  smile. 

"Who  may  you  be?"  she  asked  in  French, 
and  her  voice  was  low  and  caressing. 

"My  name  is  Austin  Waide,"  he  answered 
stiffly. 

"And  what  is  your  business  here?" 

"I  am  afraid,  madame,  that  I  do  not  exactly 
know.  I  am  here  to  find  out." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  still  smiling,  "how  very  in 
teresting." 

"Perhaps,"  said  he. 

"Perhaps?"  she  echoed.  "And  why  'per 
haps'?  If  ignorance  is  bliss,  is  not  doubt  seven 
times  bliss?" 

"I  am  quite  satisfied,"  said  Austin,  looking 
her  fairly  in  the  eyes;  "only  these  shoes  are  un 
comfortable." 


274  EVERY  MOVE 

"That  shall  be  remedied,"  she  answered, 
making  a  place  for  him  beside  her  on  the  couch. 
"Monsieur  Austin  Waide  shall  not  be  com 
pelled  to  stand." 

He  sat  down  as  he  was  bidden.  Strange  to 
say,  all  embarrassment  had  left  him;  but  he 
felt  confidently  excited,  as  though  he  had  drunk 
champagne. 

"Do  you  find  me  beautiful?"  she  demanded, 
turning  on  him  suddenly. 

Austin  looked  her  frankly  in  the  eyes;  and 
her  eyes  were  not  frank,  but  the  reverse.  She 
screened  them  with  her  indigo-tinted  lids  and 
her  small  teeth  played  with  her  lower  lip. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  at  length,  "I  find  you 
beautiful  in  a  certain  sense  of  the  word." 

"You  are  half-hearted,"  she  said,  dissatis 
fied,  "and  not  gallant.  You  are  disappointing 
after  all.  But,  then,  you  are  nothing  but  an 
Anglo-Saxon  that  has  never  felt  his  heart  beat." 

She  clapped  her  hands  sharply  and  motioned 
to  one  of  the  girls  lying  at  her  feet. 

"Dance !"  she  commanded. 

The  girl  obeyed  her,  trembling.  The  din 
of  the  tambours  throbbed,  pulselike,  through 
the  court.  The  long  fans  of  ostrich-plumes 
waved  to  and  fro,  like  pendulums,  in  the  heavy, 
scented  air. 

The  woman  leaned  toward  Austin  on  the 
couch,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his.  Some  strange, 
Eastern  perfume  that  she  used  stole  about  him 
and  intoxicated  him. 


EVERY  MOVE  275 

Watching  his  face,  she  read  in  it  his  agita 
tion,  and  she  smiled  at  the  knowledge  that  she 
had  stirred  him — smiled  slowly  and  lazily  with 
her  red  lips. 

"Ah,"  she  said  softly,  "at  last  you  know  that 
your  heart  beats.  Now,  tell  me,  am  I  beauti 
ful?" 

"You  are  so  beautiful  that  it  hurts,"  he  an 
swered  her,  shivering.  The  blood  rushed  to  his 
head  and  above  the  dull  beating  of  the  music 
he  could  hear  his  own  heavy  breathing  and  hers ; 
and,  through  it  all,  the  even  rhythmical  murmur, 
like  the  purr  of  a  smooth  motor  or  the  buzz 
of  a  dentist's  drill. 

She  laughed  softly,  and  he  put  out  his  arms 
and  held  her  closely.  Her  eyes  came  nearer  to 
his,  fixed  on  them,  holding  them.  A  loose 
strand  of  her  hair  brushed  his  forehead.  Then 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

As  he  did  so  the  dancing  girl  fell  to  the 
ground  and  lay  there  white,  motionless,  ex 
hausted.  At  the  same  time  the  sound  of  the 
tambours  ceased,  and,  stifled  by  the  silence,  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  rose  to  his  feet,  dazed, 
staring  stupidly  about  him. 

There  was  no  movement  from  the  crowd  in 
front  of  the  dais.  The  dancing  girl  lay  where 
she  had  fallen.  Only  the  fans  swayed  up  and 
down  monotonously. 

As  his  senses  came  slowly  back  to  him,  he 
passed  his  hand  vaguely  across  his  forehead. 
It  was  as  though  he  were  coming  out  of  some 


276  EVERY   MOVE 

tense,  realistic  dream — some  dream  that  had 
been  so  vivid  that  he  could  not  yet  wholly  shake 
it  off. 

Then,  standing,  he  saw  that  which  he  had 
not  seen  before.  He  saw,  half-hidden  by  the' 
screening  foliage,  the  body  of  a  man,  sprawling, 
twisted  and  contorted,  on  the  marble  floor  to 
the  left  of  the  dais. 

The  body  was  dressed  much  as  he  himself 
was  dressed,  and  the  body  lay  in  a  pool  of  blood. 
An  ugly  knife  lay  beside  it,  bare  and  crimson. 

While  he  stood  and  gazed,  overwhelmed, 
unbelieving,  the  woman  beside  him  clapped  her 
hands  once  more.  Two  giant  black  slaves,  half- 
naked,  their  muscles  rippling  smoothly  along 
their  arms  and  backs,  bowed  low  before  her. 
She  pointed  at  Austin  with  disdain. 

"Take  him  away,"  she  said,  uand  teach  him. 
He  sickens  me;  he  is  over-squeamish.  Teach 
him  not  to  draw  away  from  my  kisses  as  though 
they  burnt  his  lips.  When  you  have  finished 
with  him  you  may  bring  him  back  and  throw 
him  beside  the  other.  Now  go.  Take  him 
away !" 

They  rushed  at  him  together.  But  he  stood 
on  the  dais,  two  steps  above  them,  waiting  for 
them.  And  this  was  in  his  favor. 

One  of  them  he  caught  neatly  under  the  chin 
with  his  left  and  sent  him  reeling  back  with  his 
arms  beating  the  air.  The  second  grappled 
with  him  and  they  rocked  and  staggered  to 
gether,  up  and  down  the  step.  The  woman, 


EVERY  MOVE  277 

drawing  her  feet  up  on  the  couch  that  they 
might  not  be  in  the  way,  watched  the  fight  with 
cool  interest,  her  chin  in  her  hands.  She 
watched  it  as  might  a  disinterested  spectator 
who  had  no  bet  on  the  outcome :  she  approved 
a  good  blow  struck  or  an  advantage  gained  by 
either  side. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  atrium  Austin  had  a 
glimpse  of  Monsieur  Vilbert's  white  face  watch 
ing  them  eagerly.  Behind  him  bulged  the  fat 
figure  of  Dieudonne,  his  cheeks  shining  with 
excitement. 

Austin  tripped  his  man  and  threw  him  heavily 
to  the  floor,  just  as  the  other  black  regained 
his  unsteady  feet.  Monsieur  Vilbert,  in  the 
distance,  grinned  sardonically  and  rubbed  his 
small  white  hands.  His  lips  framed  the  mono 
syllable  "good." 

"Good!"  echoed  Dieudonne,  at  his  back. 

The  woman  on  the  couch  imperiously  waved 
forward  two  more  slaves  from  the  waiting  row. 
It  reminded  Austin  grimly  of  Nero  clamoring 
in  the  Colosseum  for  more  lions. 

"If  they  start  using  their  knives  it's — good- 
by,"  he  muttered. 

With  four  against  him,  even  though  two  of 
them  were  somewhat  crippled  by  previous  com 
bat,  the  fight  became  dismally  unequal.  They 
came  upon  him  with  a  rush  from  all  sides  save 
the  rear,  where  he  was  protected  by  the  couch. 
He  was  able  to  deliver  but  one  blow,  and  that 
one,  being  his  last,  was  a  desperate  effort.  He 


278  EVERY  MOVE 

had  the  satisfaction  of  stretching  one  huge,  ugly 
giant  flat  on  his  back  before  they  overpowered 
him  and  held  his  arms  fast  to  his  sides. 

They  manifested  no  gentleness  then  in  their 
treatment  of  him;  one  at  his  head  and  two  at 
his  feet.  The  fourth  lay  beside  the  dancing  girl, 
motionless,  unheeded. 

As  they  bore  Austin  away  toward  the  atrium 
he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  woman,  stretched  prone 
on  the  couch,  following  him  with  her  eyes. 
And  a  slow,  cruel  smile  curled  her  lips.  The 
long  fans  were  waving  quietly,  rhythmically,  and 
the  only  sound  throughout  the  court  was  that 
dull  murmur,  like  the  purr  of  a  smooth  motor 
or  the  buzz  of  a  dentist's  drill. 

Vilbert  met  them  in  the  atrium.  He  was 
strangely  excited,  and  all  the  time  he  was  rub 
bing  his  sleek  hands  gloatingly  together.  Dieu- 
donne  stood  behind  him,  perspiring  freely. 

Once  outside  the  court  Austin  was  allowed 
to  stand,  the  slaves  holding  his  arms.  Panting, 
furious,  he  looked  back  toward  the  dais.  The 
woman  was  huddled  on  the  couch,  sobbing  and 
shaking  and  wringing  her  hands. 

Vilbert  stood  by  the  entrance,  his  arm  up 
raised,  waiting.  Suddenly  the  woman  sat  up 
right,  threw  back  her  head,  drew  something 
from  her  girdle  that  flashed  like  a  knife,  and 
plunged  it  into  her  breast.  Then  she  fell  for 
ward  on  her  face. 

"Now!"  cried  Vilbert  ecstatically.  "Fin 
ished!" 


EVERY   MOVE  279 

He  clapped  his  hands,  and  the  scene  changed 
with  magic  rapidity.  The  woman  on  the  couch 
raised  herself  slowly  and  began  to  adjust  her 
clothing,  patting  her  hair  with  delicate  touches. 
The  Nubian  slave  and  the  dancing  girl,  who  had 
lain  prostrate  on  the  floor,  got  slowly  to  their 
feet,  she  smiling,  laughing,  chatting  unconcern 
edly  and  volubly  in  French;  he  stumbling,  a 
little  stiffly,  somewhat  crestfallen,  for  Austin 
had  put  excellent  force  behind  his  last  upper-cut. 

And  the  dull  noise  like  the  purr  of  a  smooth 
motor  or  the  buzz  of  a  dentist's  drill  ceased. 

Vilbert  turned,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles. 
He  seized  Austin  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him 
rapturously  on  both  cheeks. 

"Cut  it  out,"  said  Austin  disgustedly;  "what 
in  the  devil  do  you  think  you  are  doing?  Will 
you  please  tell  me  the  joke?" 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Monsieur  Vilbert;  "he 
thinks  it  a  joke.  Well,  here  is  Roxane.  She 
will  explain  the  joke." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Dieudonne,  "she  will  explain." 

As  he  spoke,  the  woman  from  the  couch  came 
into  the  atrium.  Vilbert,  beside  himself  with 
delight,  rushed  to  her,  shrieking  adjectives  of 
approval.  When  she  had  calmed  him  he 
turned  to  Austin. 

"Monsieur  Waide,"  he  said,  "it  is  my  great 
pleasure  to  present  you  to  Madame  Roxane 
Verneuil,  of  the  Comedie  Franchise.  To-day, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  brilliant  career,  she  has 
honored  the  firm  of  Vilbert  and  Dieudonne  by 


280  EVERY   MOVE 

consenting  to  display  her  divine  talent  for  a 
moving-picture ' ' 

"Hush,"  said  she,  interrupting  his  eloquence. 
''Monsieur  Waide,  I  am  enchanted  to  meet  you 
on  a  somewhat  more  formal  basis  than  just  now; 
and  may  I  congratulate  you  on  your  most  real 
istic  portrayal  of  the  leading  role  of  our  drama 
without  words.  Realism  —  perfect  realism! 
That  is  what  we  obtained  by  keeping  you  in 
ignorance  of  our  purpose.  I  only  regret  that 
your  words  cannot  be  reproduced  as  well  as 
your  motions.  Your  fighting  was  magnificent, 
but  your  love-making  was — well,  shall  I  say 
convincing?" 

"One  does  what  one  can,  madame,"  said 
Austin  weakly.  "It  is  somewhat  humiliating, 
however,  to  find  that,  out  of  so  many,  I  was,  so 
to  speak,  the  only  goat — le  seul  chevre" 

"I  do  not  quite  comprehend,"  said  Roxane, 
"but  you  need  not  be  humiliated ;  poor  Alphonse 
and  Bernard  are  still  nursing  their  chins — they 
who  are  used  to  rough  handling,  also.  What 
shall  you  call  the  film,  Monsieur  Vilbert?" 

"I  think,"  answered  Monsieur  Vilbert,  "that 
I  shall  call  it  'Through  Passion  to  Death.' 
That  should  attract  the  American  public." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Austin,  "that  portions  of 
my  performance  would  fall  short  of  that  title. 
I  only  wish  I  might  give  an  encore;  for  I  am 
convinced  that  on  a  second  trial  I  could  do  my 
self  better  justice.  There  was  one  part  in  par 
ticular,"  he  added,  glancing  surreptitiously  at 


EVERY   MOVE  281 

Roxane,  "that  I  might  have  improved  had  I  not 
hurried  it." 

"Oh,  I  am  not  sure,"  she  answered  him 
quickly;  "you  did  it  quite  well  enough."  And, 
smiling,  she  dabbed  the  rouge  from  her  lips 
with  her  handkerchief. 


LETITIA 


LETITIA 

I 

WHEN  Samuel  Dent,  wealthy  malefactor, 
had,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five,  ground  a  fortune 
out  of  high-grade  soap  and  the  sweat  of  the 
poor  laboring  man,  he  sat  back,  rested  on  his 
laurels,  and  had  a  slight  paralytic  stroke.  Al 
though  his  doctor,  a  famous  New  York  special 
ist  called  Haven,  assured  him  that  there  was 
no  immediate  danger,  Samuel  Dent,  greatly 
frightened,  was  convinced  that  he  was  about  to 
die.  With  this  conviction  came  fear;  and  with 
fear  came  remorse;  and  with  remorse  came  a 
frantic  clutching  for  spiritual  salvation.  He 
ugot  religion" — and  in  a  very  malignant,  Pres 
byterian  form. 

Just  as  he  had  called  in  the  best  physician  to 
heal  his  body,  so  did  he  now  summon  the  best 
clergyman  to  ease  his  soul.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Thane  had  the  reputation  and  the  manner  of 
being  very  influential  in  high  circles.  But  the 
task  that  Samuel  Dent's  conscience  set  him  to  do 
involved  not  only  repentance,  confession,  and 
reformation,  but  also  material  restitution;  so, 
with  this  last  in  mind,  he  was  forced  to  add  his 
attorney,  Rutherford  Wilkins,  to  the  staff  of 
285 


286  LETITIA 


advisers.  Equipped,  then,  with  a  physician,  a 
clergyman,  and  a  lawyer,  he  seemed  to  be  in  a 
fair  way  to  triumph  over  his  offenses  against 
nature  and  God  and  man. 

The  four  men  met  in  solemn  conclave  in 
Samuel  Dent's  high-ceilinged  library  on  a  late 
February  afternoon.  Dent  himself,  cadaverous 
and  brooding,  sat  in  a  great  leather  armchair 
by  the  open  fire.  The  others  ranged  themselves 
opposite  him:  Haven,  stately,  uninterested, 
and  fingering  his  watch;  Thane,  eager,  acqui 
escent,  yet  trying  hard  to  be  a  man  among  men; 
Wilkins,  dry,  restless,  disconcertingly  plain- 
spoken. 

"Gentlemen,"  began  Samuel  Dent,  "thank 
you  for  coming  to-day." 

They  made  some  unanimous  deprecative 
noise  at  the  end  of  which  Thane's  voice  could  be 
heard  trailing  off  into :  "Not  at  all,  my  dear  sir, 
not  at  all." 

"You,  Mr.  Thane"  —  Dent  turned  to  the 
clergyman  —  "you  know  that  I  am  a  very 
wretched  man.  I  am  an  old  man  and  a  sick 
man — and  I  am  a  sinful  man.  The  health  of 
God  is  not  in  me.  But  now,  before  it  is  too 
late,  before  I  die,  I  want  to  lay  hold  of 
life  so  that  when  the  awful  day  arrives  I'll  be 
able  to  face  the  Almighty  Judge  and  say:  'Lo, 
I  have  strayed  from  the  fold,  but  have  mercy, 
for  I  have  returned  repentant!'  ' 

Mr.  Thane  looked  very  solemn  at  this  as  if 
weighing  the  efficacy  of  such  a  plea;  Doctor 


LETITIA  287 


Haven  appeared  slightly  embarrassed;  and  Mr. 
Wilkins,  the  attorney,  grunted  enigmatically. 

But  Samuel  Dent,  greatly  moved,  continued 
to  a  climax,  his  voice  sometimes  shrill  with  fear, 
sometimes  shaken  with  awe,  sometimes,  when  he 
permitted  himself  a  ray  of  hope,  hushed  to  a 
tense  trembling  whisper.  Thus  might  Jeremiah 
have  spoken. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Dent,"  ventured  the  doctor, 
"but  you  must  not  work  yourself  up  to  such  a 
nervous  pitch.  I  cannot  allow  you  to  proceed 
unless  you  can  control  yourself,"  and  he  crossed 
over  to  feel  the  patient's  pulse.  "As  I  thought 
— rapid  and  irregular." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Wilkins,  "Mr.  Dent 
will  come  to  the  point  where  /  can  help  him. 
So  far  I  see  no  call  for  my  services." 

But  Mr.  Thane  said  reprovingly:  "Mr. 
Dent  needs  the  services  of  all  men." 

"Now,"  said  the  doctor,  returning  to  his 
chair,  "proceed,  Mr.  Dent,  but  more  calmly, 
and,  if  I  may  suggest  it,  more — er,  concisely." 

Samuel  Dent  passed  a  scrawny  hand  across 
his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  their  prophetic  vision. 
Then  he  sat  up  erect  in  his  chair  and  said,  in  a 
voice  of  doom:  "Gentlemen,  I  am  a  married 


man." 


This,  though  obviously  unexpected,  failed  to 
excite  any  deep  consternation.  Mr.  Thane 
raised  sympathetic  eyebrows;  the  doctor  said, 
"Ah,"  as  if  he  were  showing  his  tonsils;  and 
Wilkins  remarked  that  he,  himself,  was  too. 


288  LETIT1A 


"I  am  a  married  man,"  repeated  Samuel 
Dent — "that  is  to  say,  I  believe  I  am  a  widower. 
But  somewhere  there  is  a  child.  God  save  me 
from  the  torments  of  hell ! — there  is  a  child." 

"Steady,"  interposed  the  doctor,  for  Dent 
threatened  to  become  again  unduly  excited. 

"Where  is  the  child?"  demanded  Wilkins, 
plucking  up  interest. 

Dent  shrank  down  into  his  chair  and  shook 
his  head  gloomily. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.    "I  don't  know." 

Wilkins  drew  a  small  leather-bound  note 
book  from  his  breast-pocket,  detached  a  gold 
pencil  from  his  watch-chain,  and  prepared  to 
make  a  memorandum. 

"The  child's  name?"  he  inquired. 

"Letitia,"  answered  Dent  mournfully.  "We 
were  going  to  call  her  Letty  for  short." 

"Born?" 

"Nineteen  years  ago." 

"H'm— 1893.     Month  and  day?" 

Mr.  Thane  held  up  an  arm  semaphorically. 

"Would  it  not  be  better,"  he  observed  mildly, 
"for  Mr.  Dent  to  tell  us  the  story  in  his  own 
way?  We  ought  to  know  exactly  what  his 
purpose  is  before  we  waste  valuable  time  on 
unimportant  details." 

Samuel  Dent  started  to  speak,  but  Wilkins 
forestalled  him. 

"It  is  quite  obvious,  isn't  it,  what  Mr.  Dent's 
purpose  is:  deserted  wife  and  young  child — 
child  named  Letitia  —  born  1893 — mother's 


LETITIA  289 


maiden  name  so  far  unknown  to  us — mother 
supposedly  dead.  It's  all  quite  clear,  I  think — 
or  will  be.  Mr.  Dent,  of  course,  wishes  to 
have  his  daughter  traced  and  restored  to  him; 
isn't  that  so,  Mr.  Dent?  Nothing  simpler — 
if  she's  alive." 

At  this  last  Mr.  Dent  shuddered  and  gasped 
in  his  chair. 

"Don't  —  don't,"  he  faltered.  "If  she  is 
dead,  my  soul  is  lost — condemned  forever  to 
the  tortures  of  hell-fire — thrown  into  the  black 
abyss — hurled  to  the  red,  leaping  flames  1" 

"Easy,  now,"  said  the  doctor.  "Of  course 
she's  alive.  We'll  find  her  for  you  all  right." 

"We'll  find  her  all  right,"  agreed  Wilkins, 
"if  I  may  be  allowed  to  procure  some  more 
data,"  and  he  glanced  rather  severely  at  Mr. 
Thane. 

"Month  and  day?"  he  proceeded. 

"May  —  I  think  May,"  answered  Samuel 
Dent.  "Yes;  the  4th  of  May." 

"Place  of  birth?" 

"Green  Lake,  Montana." 

"That's  bad  — very  bad,"  said  Wilkins. 
"Should  have  been  born  in  a  city." 

"And  why,  pray?"  inquired  Mr.  Thane 
acidly. 

"Make  it  easier  to  trace  her,"  explained  Wil 
kins.  "As  it  is,  we  can  be  sure  of  only  one 
thing — that  she  is  not  at  Green  Lake,  Montana. 
I  dare  say  people  are  born  there,  but  nobody 


290  LET1TIA 


would  stay  there.  Now,  Mr.  Dent,  her  moth 
er's  maiden  name,  please  ?" 

Samuel  Dent  groaned. 

"Lucy — Lucy  Baxter,"  he  said  weakly. 

"Last  heard  of?"  The  attorney  was  re 
lentless. 

"I  read  of  her  death  fifteen  years  ago,  in  a 
Helena  newspaper.  I  always  take  a  Helena 
paper.  I  was  married  in  Helena." 

"H'm.  Nothing  said  about  the  child,  I  sup 
pose?" 

Dent  shook  his  head. 

"H'm.     Can  you  describe  the  child?" 

"How  can  I  ?  She  was  only  a  year  old  when 
I  saw  her  last.  You  can't  describe  a  year-old 
baby." 

"No  scar — or  a  birthmark,  perhaps?"  sug 
gested  the  doctor. 

"Had  she  been  baptized?"  asked  Mr.  Thane. 

"Useless  question,"  commented  Wilkins. 
"Wouldn't  show  if  she  had." 

"She  hadn't  been  baptized  and  she  had  no 
birthmark — at  least,  I  don't  know  of  any,"  said 
Dent  miserably.  "She  looked  just  like  an 
ordinary  baby.  She  had  a  good  deal  of  hair — 
would  that  help  ?  Dark  hair.  And — oh,  yes — 
blue  eyes." 

"Useless  — useless,"  said  Wilkins.  "Hair 
and  eyes  are  not  permanent  at  one  year." 

"Hair  never  is,"  murmured  the  doctor,  who 
was  becoming  very  bored. 

After  a  few  more  questions,  the  lawyer  put 


LETITIA  291 


away  his  note-book  and  rose  to  go.  Samuel 
Dent,  exhausted,  lay  crumpled  up  in  the  big 
chair,  and  the  doctor  was  feeling  his  pulse. 
Mr.  Thane  stood  by  the  fire,  shifting  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  reluctant  to  leave.  He  rather 
hoped  that  Dent  would  urge  him  to  stay  after 
the  others  had  gone,  for  he  felt  that  he  had  not 
appeared  to  very  brilliant  advantage  in  the 
presence  of  Wilkins  and  Doctor  Haven.  Be 
sides,  there  was  the  matter  of  the  new 
organ.  .  .  . 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Dent,"  said  Wilkins  to  the 
pitiful  figure  in  the  chair.  "We  shall  do  every 
thing  possible  with  so  little  to  go  on.  Advertise 
ments  in  all  the  papers,  of  course — Montana 
papers  especially.  Sorry  the  girl  didn't  have  a 
harelip  or  a  finger  missing  or  something  like 
that  to  identify  her  unmistakably.  Still,  it  can't 
be  helped.  We'll  do  our  best.  Good-day." 

When  the  lawyer  had  gone,  Doctor  Haven 
rang  for  the  valet. 

"Bagby,"  he  said,  "help  me  get  Mr.  Dent 
up-stairs  and  to  bed.  He's  had  a  very  painful 
half-hour — very  painful  indeed.  Mr.  Thane, 
I  think  you  had  better  leave  us — my  patient 
must  have  absolute  quiet.  Er — good-by;  you 
have  been  of  great  assistance  —  great  assist 


ance." 


Then  the  doctor  and  Bagby,  the  valet,  carried 
Samuel  Dent  up  to  bed. 


292  LETITIA 


II 

Now  Bagby,  the  valet,  occupied  a  peculiar 
position  in  Samuel  Dent's  household.  When 
Dent  had  determined  to  sell  out  the  soap  busi 
ness  in  Saint  Louis  and  assault  New  York  and 
Wall  Street,  Bagby  had  followed  him  East  to 
take  care  of  him.  While  Dent  had  been  making 
money,  Bagby  had  been  making  observations. 
He  had  learned  how  the  right  people  dressed; 
what  they  ate,  and  at  what  hours;  how  they 
furnished  their  houses;  what  brands  of  auto 
mobiles  they  bought;  what  wines  they  drank; 
what  oaths  they  used;  what  jewelry  they  permit 
ted  themselves ;  and  what  god  they  believed  in. 
Thus  Bagby  had  become  a  sort  of  social  mentor 
to  Dent — a  position  that  made  for  intimacy 
and  bred  confidences.  Bagby  knew  not  whence 
his  master  derived  his  income,  but  he  did  know 
where  he  bought  his  waistcoats;  he  cared  not 
whether  Dent  was  a  bull  or  a  bear,  but  he  saw 
to  it  that  his  coat-collar  was  of  seal.  And  it 
was,  metaphorically,  over  Bagby's  dead  body 
that  Samuel  Dent  joined  the  Presbyterian 
Church:  Bagby  had  had  his  name  on  the  list 
for  a  pew  at  St.  Thomas's. 

Incidentally,  Bagby's  name  was  not  Bagby 
at  all — it  was  Ephraim  Bunny.  But  Bagby 
pointed  out  that  Bunny  was  no  name  for  a 
gentleman's  man,  and  it  was  Bagby  himself  that 


LETITIA  293 


suggested,  very  respectfully,  that  he  (Bunny) 
be  rechristened. 

It  followed  logically,  then,  that  Samuel 
Dent's  fervid  and  unexpected  attack  of  religion 
greatly  upset  Bagby.  Obviously  it  was  not  the 
thing — it  was  plebeian,  it  smacked  of  the  sud 
den  conversions  brought  about  by  vulgar  re 
vivalists.  Whenever  Samuel  Dent  called  loudly 
on  his  Lord  (which  was  often)  Bagby  felt 
humiliated;  and  he  blushed  for  his  employer 
when  he  heard  him  screaming  of  hell-fire  and 
brimstone  and  the  black  abyss  and  the  tortures 
of  the  damned.  Bagby  knew  that  no  Christian 
gentleman  gave  such  things  a  thought. 

Night  after  night  Samuel  Dent  poured  out 
the  tale  of  his  sins  to  Bagby. 

"Think  of  it,  Bagby,"  he  would  cry,  shiver 
ing,  "think  of  it — the  wife  left  alone,  perhaps 
to  starve — and  the  baby,  my  little  girl,  my  little 
Letitia  !  I  turned  my  back  on  them — I  listened 
to  the  voice  of  the  Evil  One,  miserable  sinner 
that  I  am.  My  soul  is  black — black,  I  tell  you, 
Bagby,  and  nothing  can  cleanse  it.  Oh,  if  I 
could  but  make  my  peace  with  the  Lord  before 
I  die!" 

"I  understand,"  Bagby  would  answer,  busy 
ing  himself  with  Dent's  clothes — "I  understand 
that  they  are  not  wearing  four-button  dress 
waistcoats  any  more,  sir.  I'll  put  these  old  ones 
of  yours  away,  sir,  if  you'll  allow  me.  And  I 
think,  sir,  that  I'll  have  to  send  back  that 
colored  silk  underwear  you  ordered.  No 


294  LETITIA 


colors,  sir — leastwise  not  for  a  gentleman  of 
your  years." 

Thus  Bagby  endeavored  discreetly  to  turn 
the  painful  trend  of  Samuel  Dent's  thoughts. 
But  as  time  went  on  and  there  came  no  results 
from  Wilkins's  advertising  campaign,  no  Le- 
titia  to  soothe  Dent's  soul,  no  prospect  of 
his  securing  a  heavenly  pardon  by  means  of  an 
earthly  one,  Bagby  found  that  it  became  more 
and  more  difficult  to  divert  his  employer's  har 
rowed  mind.  And  Bagby  became  sincerely 
alarmed. 

He  intercepted  Wilkins  in  the  front  hall  each 
time  the  attorney  came  to  report  progress  or 
lack  of  progress. 

uNo  news  from  Miss  Letitia,  sir?"  Bagby 
would  inquire  wistfully. 

"Not  yet." 

Then  Bagby  would  shake  his  head  dolorously 
and  help  Wilkins  into  his  overcoat. 

Finally,  in  despair,  Wilkins  made  a  flying 
trip  to  Montana,  where  he  spent  three  busy 
days  at  Green  Lake.  During  his  absence  Sam 
uel  Dent's  condition  became  very  precarious 
indeed,  and  Doctor  Haven  was  in  constant  at 
tendance  at  the  bedside. 

"Unless  Wilkins  comes  back  leading  Letitia 
by  the  hand,"  said  the  doctor  to  Bagby,  "I  can 
not  hold  out  much  hope  for  Mr.  Dent's  life. 
He  is  worrying  himself  into  the  grave.  I  have 
always  been  told  that  religion  was  a  comfort — 
a  staff  to  lean  upon.  Humph !  Mr.  Dent's  re- 


LET  IT  I A  295 


ligion  is  killing  him.  The  fear  of  hell  is  propel 
ling  him  toward — er,  heaven." 

When  Wilkins  returned  from  Montana,  he 
summoned  Doctor  Haven,  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Thane,  and  Bagby  to  his  office;  and  the  four  of 
them  talked  for  an  hour  behind  closed  doors. 
When  they  came  out  it  was  noticed  that  Wil 
kins  was  disturbed,  Haven  was  insistent,  Thane 
was  expostulatory,  and  Bagby  was  more  cheer 
ful  than  he  had  been  for  weeks.  But  they  all 
bore  themselves  like  men  who  have  shouldered 
great  responsibilities. 

Two  days  later  Samuel  Dent  had  a  relapse — 
so  serious  that  Doctor  Haven,  fearing  a  second 
stroke  for  him,  took  a  room  next  to  the  patient 
and  remained  in  the  house  constantly  for 
seventy-two  hours  at  the  rate  of  fifty  dollars  an 
hour. 

While  the  flame  of  Dent's  life  was  still 
flickering  like  a  candle  in  a  draught,  there  came 
to  pass  an  event  as  fortunate  as  it  was  un 
expected.  One  afternoon  Wilkins,  nervous  and 
excited,  came  up  the  front  steps  of  the  Madison 
Avenue  house  with  a  young  girl  on  his  arm. 
Thane  and  Haven  were  present  in  the  sick 
room,  listening  to  Dent's  vague  rambling  mut- 
terings  from  the  book  of  Lamentations;  for 
Dent,  in  his  wretchedness,  clung  to  the  Old 
Testament,  feeling,  doubtless,  a  certain  kin 
ship  with  the  soul-racked  prophets. 

"  'Behold,'  "  he  wailed  with  Jeremiah,  "  'be 
hold  and  see  if  there  be  any  sorrow  like  unto 


296  LET  ITU 


my  sorrow,  which  is  done  unto  me,  wherewith 
the  Lord  hath  afflicted  me  in  the  day  of  his 
fierce  anger.  From  above  hath  he  sent  fire  into 
my  bones,  and  it  prevaileth  against  them:  he 
hath  spread  a  net  for  my  feet,  he  hath  turned 
me  back:  he  hath  made  me  desolate  and  faint 
all  the  "day.  The  yoke  of  my  transgressions  is 
bound  by  his  hand :  they  are  wreathed  and  come 
upon  my  neck:  he  hath  made  my  strength  to 
fall '  " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Wilkins,  announced 
by  the  tremulous  Bagby,  entered  the  room.  He 
nodded  to  Haven  and  Thane  and  immediately 
crossed  over  to  the  bed. 

"Good  news,  Mr.  Dent,"  said  he. 

Dent  stared  at  him  vacantly. 

"There  can  be  no  good  news  for  such  as  me," 
he  groaned.  "I  am  an  outcast,  a  pariah,  a  sin 
ner  in  the  nethermost  gloom.  Woe  unto  me 
that  I  have  sinned !  I  shall  die  and  be  consumed 
in  the  fires  of  hell — I  shall " 

"If  you  would  listen  to  me,"  interrupted  the 
lawyer,  "you  wouldn't  perhaps  be  so  sure  of 
those  fires  of  hell.  I  tell  you  I  have  good  news 
— I  have  found  Letitia." 

"No !"  exclaimed  Haven.    "You  don't  say !" 

"The  Lord's  name  be  praised!"  said  Thane. 

Samuel  Dent  sat  up  in  bed;  and  he  pointed 
a  shaking  finger  at  Wilkins,  as  if  he  were  aim 
ing  a  revolver  at  him. 

"You  aren't  fooling  me,  Wilkins?"  he  said. 
"You  aren't  fooling  me?" 


LETITIA  297 


"Have  her  up,"  replied  Wilkins  imperturb- 
ably,  "and  see  for  yourself." 

"I  shouldn't  know  her,"  groaned  Dent.  But 
he  added  eagerly:  "She  says  she's  Letitia — she 
remembers?" 

"Ask  her,"  recommended  Wilkins. 

He  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called 
"Bagby!" 

The  response  was  almost  immediate. 

"Bagby,  bring  up  the  young  lady  that  is  wait 
ing  in  the  hall." 

There  was  a  minute  of  silent  suspense.  You 
could  hear  the  four  men  breathing;  and  Dent, 
with  flushed  face  and  an  uncanny  light  in  his 
eyes,  was  sitting  up  rigidly  straight,  forgetful 
of  his  weakness. 

Then  a  girl  came  into  the  room,  a  little  awk 
wardly,  a  little  hesitatingly. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  dark-green  suit,  with 
some  black  furs  at  her  neck  and  a  black  muff, 
and  she  wore  a  small  round  hat  with  a  single 
white  goose  feather  and  a  gold  tassel.  She  was 
slender  and  straight  and  dark  and  red-lipped 
and  wide-eyed;  but  her  coloring  was  so  vivid 
that  it  hinted  of  rouge  and  the  black  crayon. 

"She  is  made  up,"  said  Mr.  Thane  to  himself, 
and  couldn't  take  his  pale  eyes  off  her. 

"What  a  superb  young  female!"  thought 
Haven,  and  adjusted  his  eyeglasses. 

Wilkins,  by  right  of  discovery,  took  her 
white-gloved  hand  and  led  her  to  the  bed. 


298  LETITIA 


"Mr.  Dent,"  said  he  very  gravely,  "unless  I 
am  mistaken  this  is  your  daughter." 

"Father!"  she  cried,  and  went  gracefully  to 
her  knees. 

Dent  reached  out  to  touch  her  hair,  but  the 
goose  feather  interfered.  She  must  have  sensed 
the  trouble,  for  she  looked  up  and  said :  "Wait 
a  second  and  I'll  take  the  old  hat  off." 

True  to  her  word,  she  had  it  off  in  a  second, 
and,  after  tossing  it  carelessly  into  a  corner,  re 
sumed  her  position  on  her  knees. 

"There;  that's  better,  ain't  it?"  said  she. 

"Letitia — my  little  Letty,"  whispered  Dent. 
"Are  you  truly  my  little  Letty,  come  to  save 
and  forgive  me?" 

"Sure,  I'm  your  little  Letty,  dad,"  she  said 
soothingly. 

He  lifted  her  chin  with  his  hand  and  looked 
deep  into  her  eyes,  searching  in  them,  perhaps, 
for  something  of  himself,  something  of  her 
mother. 

"Lord  God,"  he  cried,  "let  me  be  certain!" 

Then  he  lay  back  on  the  pillows  with  a  sigh. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  more  calmly,  "tell  me 
about  yourself — all  you  can  remember.  And 
about  your  mother,  if  you  can." 

Letitia  drew  a  long  breath  and  began. 

"I  was  born,"  she  said,  "in  1893,  in  the  little 
village  of  Green  Lake,  Montana." 

"Yes,"  said  Dent  encouragingly,  "go  on — 
that's  right — go  on." 

Wilkins,  turning  his  back,  looked  out  of  the 


LET  IT  I A  299 


window.  He  had  heard  this  before.  Thane 
and  Haven  exchanged  glances  and  then  each 
looked  hastily  away. 

"My  mother's  name,"  the  girl  continued, 
"was  Lucy  Baxter — before  she  married  you." 

"Ah!"  breathed  Dent,  with  a  sigh  that  was 
cousin  to  a  sob.  "Poor,  poor  Lucy!" 

"She  died,"  said  Letitia  simply. 

"You  remember — her  death?" 

"No;  not  very  well.  I  wasn't  nothing  but  a 
kid.  I  was  four  years  old.  Mrs.  Dent — mother 
—died  in  1897." 

"Of  course — you  were  too  young." 

"She  died  in  Helena,"  added  the  girl. 

"Yes,"  said  Dent  sadly,  "I  read  the  death 
notice  in  the  paper.  And  you — when  she  died, 
what  became  of  you?" 

"I  lived  with  some  people  that  had  a  farm 
in  the  country.  They  was — they  were  very 
kind.  They  raised  pigs  and — and  things.  But 
I  guess  there  weren't  much  money  in  it,  because 
they  were  always  poor." 

"  'Blessed  are  the  poor!'  "  murmured  Dent. 
"You  will  tell  me  their  names  some  day,  my 
dear,  and  they'll  be  repaid  seventy  times 


over." 


"All  right,"  she  agreed,  "only  they've 
moved." 

"We'll  go  out  into  the  highways  and  hedges 
and  seek  them,"  said  Dent  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy. 

"Sure,"  she  nodded;  "we'll  have  'em  paged." 

Wilkins,  by  the  window,  cleared  his  throat. 


300  LETITIA 


"How  long  did  you  live  with  them?"  asked 
Dent. 

"Well,  I  beat  it  when  I  was  eight.  I  got  a 
job  playing  Little  Eva  in  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin* 
— on  the  road,  you  know — one-night  stands. 
We  played  Kansas  and  Nebraska  and  God 
knows  what.  I  was  the  little  traveller,  I  can 
tell  you,  at  the  age  of  eight.7' 

"My  poor  girl,"  sighed  Dent.  "What  a  life, 
what  a  hard,  cruel  life ! — and  all  my  fault.  Can 
you  ever  forgive  me,  Letty?  I'll  try  to  make 
it  up  to  you.  Now  that  I've  found  you,  you'll 
never  have  to  struggle  and  starve  again.  .  .  . 
What  have  you  been  doing  recently?" 

"Vawdvil,"  said  Letty. 

"What?" 

"Vawdvil,"  she  repeated — "two  a  day  on  the 
big  time." 

"Just  what  do  you  do?" 

"Don't  you  never  go  to  the  theatre,  dad? 
Why,  I'm  Vonnie  Lesley  of  'Lesley  and 
MacGee — songs,  dances,  and  repartee.'  That's 
how  our  act's  billed.  ,  See,  it  rhymes :  'Lesley 
and  MacGee  —  songs,  dances  and  repartee.' 
Good,  isn't  it?  That  was  Tim's  idea — Tim 
MacGee.  Say,  it's  some  act,  too.  Come  and 
see  it  sometime — we're  headliners  out  on  the 
road,  but  here  in  New  York,  what  with  Sarah 
Burnhard  and  Lady  Constantly  Stewed-Rich 
ards  and  the  Dolly  Sisters,  they've  stuck  us  in 
just  ahead  of  the  acrobats.  Competition's  some 
thing  fierce  in  this  burg." 


LETITIA  301 


"My  dear  Letty,"  said  Samuel  Dent,  "you 
needn't  worry  any  more  about  competition. 
From  now  on  my  money  is  yours.  You  need 
not  toil  and  slave  for  your  bread  any  longer. 
Wilkins" — he  turned  to  the  lawyer — "arrange 
that  my  daughter  shall  be  free  from  any  further 
obligations  to  appear  on  the  stage.  I  don't 
know  much  about  such  things,  but  do  what  is 
necessary  and  pay  what  is  necessary." 

Letitia  half-rose  to  her  feet. 

"Hold  on,"  she  said;  "not  so  fast.  This  ain't 
the  speedway.  I  can't  leave  Tim  in  the  lurch 
like  that,  and  I  wouldn't  if  I  could.  What  do 
you  suppose  Tim  would  think  of  me,  leaving 
him  cold!  No,  sir.  I'm  Letitia  Dent — but 
first,  last,  and  all  the  time  I'm  Vonnie  Lesley  of 
'Lesley  and  MacGee — songs,  dances,  and  repar 
tee.'  And,  besides,  there's  other  reasons." 

"What  are  the  other  reasons,  Miss  Dent?" 
asked  Wilkins,  with  raised  eyebrows. 

She  seemed  about  to  retort  a  little  angrily; 
her  eyes  were  not  so  wide,  her  lips  not  quite  so 
full.  But  she  evidently  thought  better  of  it, 
for  a  smile  twitched  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
as  she  answered  very  gently:  "The  other 
reasons,  Mr.  Wilkins,  is  that  I'm  engaged  to 
be  married  to  Tim  MacGee.  So  you  see  it  ain't 
likely  that  I'd  quit  the  act,  is  it?" 

This  announcement  called  forth  protest  and 
ejaculation. 

"Won't  do  at  all— not  at  all,"  said  Wilkins. 


302  LET  IT  I A 


"Think  of  your  new  position  in  society/' 
urged  Haven. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  Thane,  "this  is 
very  disturbing  indeed,  and  if  I  may  say  so, 
unfortunate." 

Samuel  Dent,  alone,  said  nothing. 

Letitia  pointed  directly  at  Thane,  who  stirred 
uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"You  can  marry  us — Tim  and  me — if  you 
want,"  she  said.  "You're  a  minister,  ain't 
you?" 

Mr.  Thane  murmured  that  he  was,  but  added 
that  he  thought  the  marriage  undesirable. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed,  misunderstanding 
him,  "you  don't  believe  in  marriage?  You're 
a  funny  minister,  you  are.  What  do  you  be 
lieve  in — free  love?" 

"Hush,"  said  Wilkins;  and  Mr.  Thane,  very 
uncomfortable  under  her  scrutiny,  explained. 

At  last  Samuel  Dent  spoke. 

"We  will  do  nothing  hastily,"  said  he. 
"Letty,  you'll  bring  Mr.  MacGee  to  the  house 
soon,  and  we'll  talk  it  over  quietly  and  reason 
ably.  I'm  so  glad  to  get  you  back,  my  dear  lit 
tle  girl,  that  I  don't  ask  anything  more,  and  I 
certainly  won't  begin  by  making  you  unhappy. 
Before  long,  when  I'm  entirely  well  again,  we'll 
have  a  long  talk,  you  and  I,  and  we'll  decide 
what's  best.  Meanwhile  you  can  do  just  ex 
actly  as  you  please  about  keeping  on  with  your 
work  on  the  stage.  There,  now,  is  that  all 
right?" 


LET  IT  I A  303 


She  leaned  over  and  kissed  him  loudly  and 
enthusiastically. 

"Fine!"  she  said.  'That's  the  sort  of  stuff 
that  gets  over.  And  you're  sure  to  like  Tim, 
dad :  he's  just  like  you — he's  a  regular  fellow." 


Ill 

THE  next  day  Letty  moved  over  from  her 
West  Side  boarding-house,  bringing  with  her 
a  derelict  of  a  hamper,  two  suitcases,  and  a 
globe  of  goldfish.  A  maid  showed  her  to  her 
room — one  of  the  many  hitherto  unoccupied 
guest-rooms  in  the  big  house.  It  was  furnished 
with  white-painted  wicker  and  blue  cretonne, 
and  was  spotlessly  clean  and  restfully  bare. 

"Needs  a  little  livening  up,  I  guess,"  was 
Letty's  comment.  ult's  pretty,  though — awful 
pretty,  and  the  bathroom's  just  grand.  When 
I  get  my  photos  stuck  around  it'll  look  very 
cosey  and  home-like." 

She  unpacked  a  most  amazing  collection  of 
photographs,  mostly  of  women  in  costume, 
smirking  behind  fans,  or  sitting  stiffly  in  Gothic 
chairs,  or  emerging  bare-shouldered  and  smiling 
from  white  fur  rugs.  There  were  some,  too, 
of  men  in  dress  clothes,  with  varnished  hair  and 
large  noses  and  small  chins;  and  there  were 
group  pictures,  snap-shots  from  Coney  and  At 
lantic  City,  of  giggling  girls  and  their  affection 
ate  escorts.  Then,  too,  there  were  half  a  dozen 


304  LETITIA 


pictures  of  Tim  MacGee,  all  inscribed  to  "my 
dear  little  Vonnie,  from  Tim." 

With  all  these  Letty  indubitably  succeeded 
in  livening  up  the  room.  When  she  had  fin 
ished,  every  mirror  was  bordered  with  photo 
graphs,  the  bureau  was  covered  with  them;  they 
dominated  the  mantelpiece,  they  almost  papered 
the  walls.  They,  and  an  indescribable  assort 
ment  of  crepe  paper  cotillon  favors,  wrought 
an  abrupt  and  decisive  transformation. 

She  entered  into  her  new  life  with  great  zest: 
each  day  brought  some  delightful  surprise  that 
called  from  her  little  explanations  of  pleasure. 
Chocolate  and  rolls  served  to  her  in  bed  in  the 
morning,  for  instance;  the  use  of  the  limousine 
with  two  men  on  the  box;  the  Niagara  that  en 
sued  when  she  turned  on  the  hot  water  in  the 
bathtub;  the  liveried  footman  that  said,  "Thank 
you,  miss,"  when  she  gave  him  an  order;  and 
the  chimes  that  that  same  liveried  footman 
struck  to  announce  luncheon  or  dinner. 

"Say,"  she  remarked,  "this  is  like  living  in 
the  Waldorf.  Don't  wake  me  up." 

She  saw  a  great  deal  of  Samuel  Dent,  who 
had  thriven  mentally,  physically,  and  spiritu 
ally  since  her  arrival.  His  efforts  to  make  her 
happy  and  comfortable  were  prodigious  and 
pathetic;  and  in  working  for  her  happiness  he 
seemed,  in  a  measure,  to  forget  his  own  former 
wretchedness  and  to  throw  off  some  of  his  re 
ligious  fanaticism.  She  had  assured  him  from 
the  first  that,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  he 


LETITIA  305 


was  forgiven.  She  bore  him  no  grudge ;  on  the 
contrary,  she  grew  to  feel  a  sincere  affection 
for  him,  for  he  continued  to  prove  to  her  that 
he  was  a  "regular  fellow." 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  she  introduced 
Tim  MacGee.  Tim  was  a  tall,  lanky,  smooth- 
shaven,  serious-minded  boy,  with  a  quiet  sense 
of  humor,  and  the  shy,  retiring  manner  of  an 
assistant  rector  that  was  hard  to  reconcile  with 
the  exuberant,  slap-stick  confidence  he  displayed 
on  the  vaudeville  stage. 

"Honest  to  God,  Mr.  Dent,"  he  said,  "I'm 
tickled  to  death  that  Vonnie's  landed  soft,  and 
I  don't  want  to  butt  in  and  break  up  her  party." 

"Letitia  seems  quite  willing  to  have  you  butt 
in,  Mr.  MacGee;  she  is  very  fond  of  you." 

"Letitia? — oh,  I  see — Vonnie.  Well,  Mr. 
Dent,  I'm  nuts  about  her,  just  simply  nuts.  Of 
course,  I'm  not  worth  a  wad  of  money  yet,  and 
perhaps  I  oughtn't — well,  perhaps  I  oughtn't 
to  stick  around  and  expect  her  to  marry  me. 
But,  say,  Mr.  Dent,  we've  got  a  swell  act  now, 
and  it's  getting  across  fine.  I'd  hate  to  lose 
Vonnie,  Mr.  Dent.  She'd  be  a  big  loss  to 
vawdvil — and  a  bigger  loss  to  me,  honest  she 
would." 

"I'm  not  going  to  interfere,"  Samuel  Dent 
assured  him.  "I  didn't  bring  Letitia  here  in 
order  to  thwart  her  in  anything  she  has  her 
heart  set  on;  and  as  well  as  I  can  make  out  she 
has  her  heart  set  on  vaudeville  and  you.  You 
are  a  lucky  man,  Mr.  MacGee." 


306  LETITIA 


"Gee,  don't  I  know  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm 
the  human  horseshoe!" 

"Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Dent. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  you 
could  almost  hear  Tim  MacGee  glow  with 
pleasure. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,  Mr.  MacGee," 
said  Dent  at  length. 

"Shoot — I  mean  please  do." 

"Oh — er,  first  will  you  have  some  refresh 
ment,  perhaps?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Tim. 

Bagby  brought  Scotch  and  siphon  and  a  tall 
glass  with  ice. 

"I  don't  drink,"  explained  Dent.  "Doctor 
won't  permit  it." 

"You  ain't  against  it  on  principles,"  said  Tim, 
hesitating;  "because  if  you  are,  I  can  wait." 

"No,"  said  Dent  smiling.  "I  was,  once — 
but  I  believe  I  am  getting  more  tolerant. 
Letitia  has  changed  me  a  great  deal." 

"Well,"  said  Tim  cordially,  "here's  how." 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  said  Dent,  after  an 
interval,  "is  whether  you  think  I  am  making 
Letitia  completely  happy.  You  see  that  is,  at 
present,  my  sole  object  in  life.  Now,  you  un 
derstand  her  probably  much  better  than  I  do — 
you  have  her  confidence  and  you  know  what  she 
enjoys.  Is  there  anything  you  can  suggest  that 
I  might  do  to  give  her  pleasure?" 

Tim  meditated  deeply. 

"There's  one  thing,"  he  said  rather  reluc- 


LETITIA  307 


tantly — "one  thing  that  I've  heard  her  wish  for 
a  whole  lot  of  times.  But  I  don't  know  whether 
you'd  do  it." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Dent,  eagerly.  "Of 
course  I'd  do  it — anything  at  all  in  my  power." 

"Well,"  continued  Tim,  "it  seems  like  asking 
royalty  to  drive  in  a  hack,  but,  anyhow,  I  know 
it  would  just  tickle  Vonnie  crazy  if  you'd  do  it 
— she's  simply  mad,  Mr.  Dent,  to  have  you  see 
our  act  from  out  front.  Honest,  Mr.  Dent, 
she's  got  her  heart  on  it.  Would  you  come 
some  night?" 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Samuel  Dent,  "I'll  come 
to-night."  ' 

"Cheers!"  cried  Tim  MacGee. 


IV 

DENT,  from  that  day  on,  attended  twice  a 
week  the  vaudeville  houses  in  New  York  and 
its  near  vicinity  where  the  team  of  Lesley  and 
MacGee  were  billed  to  dance,  sing  and  ex 
change  repartee.  Fortunately,  at  that  partic 
ular  season,  he  was  never  forced  to  travel  fur 
ther  afield  than  Brooklyn  or  Jersey  City;  later, 
when  the  team  should  leave  for  New  England, 
he  foresaw  a  more  difficult  problem  to  face. 

But  it  happened  that  they  never  went  to  New 
England;  and  this  was  due  partly  to  Samuel 
Dent's  generosity,  partly  to  the  leaping  ambition 
of  Lesley  and  MacGee,  and  partly  to  the  turkey- 


308  LETITIA 


trot.  I  say  turkey-trot  advisedly,  in  lieu  of 
fox-trot  or  maxixe  or  lulu-fado,  for,  remem 
ber,  this  was  in  1912. 

The  project  of  starting  a  combination  res 
taurant  and  dance-hall  emanated  from  Mac- 
Gee's  agile  brain.  He  broached  it  to  Letitia 
one  evening  at  the  Palatial  Theatre,  while  they 
were  waiting  to  go  on  after  the  trained  guinea 

Pig- 
honest  to  God,"  he  concluded,  "New 
York's  got  the  dancing  bug.  They  all  want  to 
die  dancing,  and  they're  willing  to  pay  good 
coin  for  the  kind  permission.  All  we  need  is  a 
floor  and  a  booze  license  and  the  kopeks  are 
ours.  Then  it'll  be  our  turn  to  sit  back  and 
watch  other  folks  make  fools  of  themselves  in 
public." 

They  put  it  to  Samuel  Dent  as  a  strictly 
business  proposition;  they  asked  no  favors. 
They  would  do  the  work ;  would  he  provide  the 
money? 

"We'll  split  the  dividends  fifty-fifty,"  ex 
plained  MacGee.  "And,  at  that,  we'll  all  get 
rich." 

Samuel  Dent  assented  without  a  murmur,  for 
he  knew  that  it  would  keep  his  Letitia  near  him 
in  New  York.  And  thus  was  launched  the  now 
famous  Carnival  Garden. 

Those  were  wonderful,  glittering  months  in 
the  spring  and  summer  of  1912.  Carnival  Gar 
den  was  a  success  from  its  inception — an  un 
precedented  success — and  Tim  and  Letitia  were 


LETITIA  309 


jubilant.  Dent's  health  became  so  excellent 
that  he  resumed  his  operations  in  Wall  Street 
with  something  of  his  old-time  carefully  planned 
recklessness;  and  almost  every  evening  he  went 
to  the  Carnival  Garden  for  a  sandwich  and  a 
glass  of  milk.  He  was  the  only  patron  of  the 
establishment  permitted  to  drink  anything  but 
champagne.  Between  her  dances  Letitia  would 
join  him  as  often  as  possible  —  Letitia  very 
lovely  in  a  filmy,  plaited  scarlet  gown,  with  a 
Dutch  cap  over  her  black  hair  and  little  black 
slippers  on  her  nervous  feet.  And  Samuel 
Dent  would  gaze  at  her  out  of  tired,  adoring 
eyes  over  his  glass  of  milk;  and  he  would  assure 
himself  that  God  had  been  very  good  to  him 
in  giving  him  such  a  daughter. 

Something  of  Dent's  new  optimism  may  be 
inferred  from  the  fact  that  in  August  he  went 
heavily  long  of  the  market.  But  do  you  remem 
ber  what  happened  to  stocks  during  that  fall 
and  winter?  For  once  Samuel  Dent  had  chosen 
the  wrong  side  —  for  once  his  judgment  had 
been  at  fault.  The  ruin  was  ghastly  and  com 
plete. 

When  the  smoke  of  the  disaster  lifted  some 
what,  and  it  was  possible  to  see  just  how  much 
damage  had  been  done,  just  what  smouldering 
ashes  of  his  once  great  fortune  remained,  there 
ensued  a  panic  among  his  creditors.  It  was 
doubtful  if  Samuel  Dent  could  meet  his  obliga 
tions.  But  he  did  meet  them;  he  sacrificed 
everything  that  he  owned  to  meet  them,  and 


310  LETITIA 


the  effort  left  him  shaken  and  shivering,  too 
weak  to  begin  again  at  the  beginning,  too  old 
to  venture  into  new  fields. 

When  the  Madison  Avenue  house  with  all 
its  contents  was  sold  at  public  auction,  Samuel 
Dent  and  his  daughter  moved  into  a  tiny  apart 
ment  west  of  Seventh  Avenue.  Carnival  Gar 
den  went  merrily  on  with  unflagging  spirits,  but 
Samuel  Dent  no  longer  sat  at  his  table  and 
sipped  his  milk.  Instead  Samuel  Dent  lay 
crumpled  up  on  his  bed — at  home.  Home! 
Oh,  the  irony  of  the  word ! 

Letitia,  with  nothing  to  do  until  evening,  was 
with  him  all  day,  and  Bagby  obstinately  refused 
to  be  discharged.  Bagby  cooked  the  meals  over 
the  gas-stove  in  the  kitchenette  and  Letitia 
served  them;  and  every  afternoon  Tim  MacGee 
came  in  for  an  hour  to  inquire  how  every  little 
thing  was.  And,  lo,  Samuel  Dent  found  that 
he  was  not  unhappy,  or,  if  he  was  unhappy,  it 
was  for  Letitia's  sake. 

"I  hoped  to  be  able  to  give  you  so  much," 
he  said,  "and  this  is  what  I  have  left  to  give. 
I  don't  see,  even,  how  we  can  pay  for  this." 

"You  forget  the  Carnival  Garden,"  answered 
Letitia.  "It's  bringing  us  in  six  thousand  per 
fectly  good  dollars  a  year." 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"I  am  living  on  my  daughter,"  he  said. 

"Rats!"  said  she  inelegantly;  "if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  there  wouldn't  be  any  Carnival 
Garden — except  in  my  mind's  eye." 


LET  IT  I A  311 


About  this  time,  Wilkins,  the  attorney,  wrote 
to  her  asking  her  if  she  would  see  him  at  his 
office.  She  went  wonderingly  but  calmly,  and 
she  came  away  flushed  with  indignation. 

"You  great  boob,"  she  exclaimed  in  farewell, 
"do  you  think  I  bite  off  more  than  I  can  chew? 
Not  Vonnie!  I'm  going  to  stick — see?" 

Wilkins,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  saw. 


IN  January  Samuel  Dent  suffered  a  second 
and  last  stroke  of  paralysis.  Doctor  Haven 
battled  in  vain;  the  combination  against  him 
and  his  medicines  was  too  strong.  Even  Mr. 
Thane,  whose  visits  had  become  less  frequent 
and  whose  hopes  of  the  new  organ  had  been 
shattered,  proved  powerless;  Samuel  Dent  died. 
He  died  tranquilly,  with  no  soul-searing 
lamentations  on  his  lips,  no  fear  of  hell-fire  in 
his  eyes;  and  he  died  clinging  to  Letitia's  hand. 
"This  has  been  a  very  happy  year  for  me, 
Letty,"  he  whispered. 

"You  bet  it  has,  dad — for  all  of  us." 
"I'm  leaving  you  nothing,  Letty — nothing." 
"You're  leaving  me  your  love,"  she  said,  and 
she  bent  and  kissed  him. 


312  LETITIA 


VI 

WHEN  it  was  over,  Haven  and  Thane  joined 
Wilkins  at  the  club.  Haven  took  a  stiff  drink 
and  Thane  ordered  a  milk  and  vichy. 

"Well?"    inquired   Wilkins   sympathetically. 

"He's  dead,"  said  Haven  with  more  feeling 
than  he  usually  cared  to  reveal. 

"He  has  departed  this  life,"  supplemented 
Thane. 

"And  Letitia?"  asked  Wilkins. 

"She  was  with  him,"  said  Haven.  "We  left 
her  praying  at  the  bed.  I  wonder  where  she 
learned  how  to  pray." 

No  one  of  them  volunteered  an  answer. 

"Well,"  said  Wilkins  after  a  silence,  "I  am 
convinced  that  we  did  the  right  thing.  It  did 
Dent  a  world  of  good " 

"It  added  a  year  to  his  life,"  interposed 
Haven,  "and  a  very  happy  year,  I  think,  in 
spite  of  everything.  Dent  would  have  died  in 
torture  had  you  told  him  that  his  daughter  had 
died  a  month  after  her  mother." 

Wilkins  nodded. 

"And  it  certainly  did  Letitia  no  harm,"  he 
said.  "She's  a  wonderful  girl  —  wonderful. 
Don't  see  them  like  her  often.  You  know,  when 
Dent  went  smash  I  had  her  come  down  to 
the  office  and  told  her  that,  of  course,  he 
couldn't  do  much  more  for  her — didn't  have  a 
cent  left.  I  suggested  that  she  was  at  liberty 


LET  IT  I A  313 


to  call  the  whole  thing  off,  but — well,  I  offered 
to  give  her  a  little  something  out  of  my  own 
pocket  if  she'd  keep  on  playing  the  part.  I  felt 
sorry  for  Dent — knew  that  he  had  come  to  lean 
on  her." 

"What  did  she  say?"  demanded  Thane. 

Wilkins  smiled  slowly  and  meditatively. 

"She  said:  'You  great  boob,  do  you  think 
I  bite  off  more  than  I  can  chew?  Not  Vonnie! 
I'm  going  to  stick — see?'  And  she  wouldn't 
touch  my  money." 

"No,"  said  Haven;  "she's  a  thoroughbred. 
I  wonder  where  old  Bagby  produced  her  from." 

"God  bless  her,"  said  Wilkins  huskily,  and 
drained  his  glass. 

"Amen,"  said  Thane. 

But  in  the  little  apartment  west  of  Seventh 
Avenue,  Bagby  and  Letitia  sat  watching  over 
the  dead.  And  suddenly  Letitia  threw  her 
arms  around  Bagby's  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  dad,"  she  sobbed,  "do  you  think  we 
made  him  happy?" 

"I'm  sure  we  did,  dear,"  answered  Bagby; 
"I'm  sure  we  did,'7 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 


A   YOUNG    MAN'S    FANCY 

JEAN  FRANCOIS,  Marquis  de  Beauvoisin,  was 
one  of  the  Forty  Immortals.  At  the  age  of 
fifty-two  the  honor  of  it  sat  lightly  upon  his 
erect  shoulders;  and  yet  he  was  not  of  those 
who  are  wont  to  accept  responsibilities  with  a 
smile  and  a  shrug.  He  was  as  painstaking  with 
his  obligations  toward  his  neighbor  and  his  na 
tion  as  he  was  in  regard  to  the  metre  of  his 
verse  or  the  care  of  his  person.  Nevertheless, 
to  be  a  staunch  Catholic,  a  fervent  Royalist,  and 
a  member  of  the  French  Academy  is,  to-day, 
no  mean  accomplishment;  for  at  the  present 
date  the  Forty  is  composed  of  two  ecclesiasts, 
four  aristocrats,  six  Jews,  and  twenty-eight  sons 
of  French  peasants  who  have  become  men  of 
letters.  Like  Cincinnatus,  they  left  the  plough 
to  lead  an  army;  and  the  pens  they  wield  are 
as  mighty  as  his  sword  and  doubtless  as  awk 
wardly  handled. 

People  who  knew  them  both  have  said  that 
the  marquis  was  as  young  at  fifty-two  as  his  son 
at  twenty-eight.  The  comparison,  however,  is 
of  little  value,  since  no  one  had  ever  seen  the 
two  together  after  the  son's  unfortunate  mar 
riage  to  uthat  person  from  one  of  the  Ameri 
cas,"  as  the  marquis  used  to  designate  her.  The 
317 


318  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

narrow  old  aristocrat  had  refused  to  attend  the 
wedding,  or  to  kiss  the  bride,  although,  good 
ness  knows,  she  was  kissable  enough  for  the 
taste  of  the  Bourbon  pretender  himself. 

The  marquis,  then,  after  the  death  of  his 
wife,  lived  alone  on  the  Quai  Voltaire,  in 
an  ancient  hotel,  the  cracked,  weather-beaten 
fagade  of  which  had  overlooked  the  silent  Seine 
for  many  generations — for  so  many,  in  fact, 
that  it  could  afford  to  sneer  across  the  river  at 
the  flaunting  pavilions  of  the  Louvre,  as  who 
should  say:  "Ha  !  Upstart!  What  right  have 
you  to  preen  yourself  so  finely  over  there? 
Who  are  you,  my  young  one,  to  make  so  much 
show?  You  are  naught  but  a  hybrid  and  most 
of  you  is  empire:  Nouveau,  bah!" 

If  I  have  stated  that  the  marquis  lived  quite 
alone  I  must  hasten  to  correct  myself;  for  his 
roof-tree  sheltered  one  other  soul,  his  house 
keeper,  Eugenie.  Eugenie,  as  her  fathers  (and 
mothers)  before  her,  had  been  created  to  serve 
the  house  of  Beauvoisin,  and  the  marquis  ad 
mitted  that,  like  all  old  and  faithful  servants, 
she  ruled  rather  than  obeyed.  His  friend,  Dr. 
Miromesnil,  said  that  the  marquis  feared  her 
wrath  above  that  of  any  but  God. 

After  the  death  of  the  marquise,  Eugenie 
promptly  seized  the  reins  of  power,  and,  un 
like  that  of  her  fatherland,  her  government 
gradually  changed  from  a  republic  to  a  mon 
archy,  and  thence  to  a  tyranny.  "Liberte, 
Egalite,  Fraternite"  that  hoarse,  Utopian  cry 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY          319 

of  the  people,  meant  naught  to  Eugenie.  She 
was  par  excellence  an  aristocrat,  referring  to 
the  estimable  president  of  the  republic  and  to 
his  ministers  and  legislators  as  "un  tas  de 
cochons"  Morning  and  evening  she  prayed 
for  his  majesty,  the  king,  who  was,  of  course, 
the  Bourbon  pretender,  inasmuch  as  the  Beau- 
voisins  were  of  no  mere  empire  nobility. 

The  marquis,  though  born  and  bred  a  staunch 
Royalist,  found  himself  perfectly  comfortable 
and  satisfied  under  a  republic.  He  was  not  long 
in  making  the  discovery  that  it  is  in  republican 
countries  that  the  nobility  are  most  esteemed 
and  sought  after.  If  people,  as  sometimes  hap 
pened,  taunted  him  with  being  the  "silken  poet 
of  the  republic,"  he  was  inclined  to  ascribe  the 
term  to  the  style  of  his  verse  rather  than  to  the 
material  of  his  shirts.  As  descriptive  of  his 
work  it  was  not  inappropriate,  for  his  endeavor 
was  to  put  into  printed  words  the  spirit  that 
Watteau  and  his  contemporaries  had  depicted 
on  canvas.  Whether  he  succeeded  is  not  for  me 
to  say;  I  can  but  refer  you  to  his  "Poesies 
Amoureuses,"  published  by  Lafitte,  and  leave 
the  judgment  to  you. 

If  ever  the  disturbing  imp  of  loneliness  en 
tered  into  the  spirit  of  the  marquis's  dreams, 
he  betrayed  it  neither  by  word  nor  sign.  He 
was  as  proud  and  withal  as  sensitive  as  those 
magnificent  sires  of  his  who  had  been  dragged 
in  the  tumbril,  smiling,  to  death;  and  yet  those 
who  knew  him  best  (and  Eugenie  was  among 


320  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

them)  realized  thoroughly  the  double  loss  that 
he  had  undergone  in  the  death  of  his  wife  and 
the  estrangement  with  his  son.  When  he  sat 
down  of  an  evening  alone  to  his  croute-au-pot 
and  his  entrecote  Eugenie  was  wont  to  shake 
her  head  sadly  and  remark  that  loneliness  makes 
a  poor  sauce.  And  Eugenie  had  moments  of 
insight. 

It  was  on  a  certain  sweet-smelling  April  night 
that  the  marquis,  having  dined,  sat  at  his  desk 
by  the  half-opened  window  correcting  the  proofs 
of  a  sonnet  destined  for  Le  Monde.  His  pen 
was  travelling  listlessly  across  the  sheets,  and 
he  was  not  annoyed  when  his  servant,  approach 
ing  noiselessly  in  her  hygienic  sandals,  thrust 
a  flushed  and  excited  face  through  the  portieres. 
Before  opening  her  lips  she  regarded  the  mar 
quis  with  something  in  her  eye  that  is  difficult 
to  describe — a  knowing,  admiring,  villainous 
look,  as  who  should  say:  "You  sly  old  rascal, 
what  a  dog  you  are  with  the  ladies,  to  be  sure ! 
And  you  in  your  fifties,  too !"  It  is  only  French 
women  who  attain  this  look,  and  they  retain  it 
long  after  the  roses  in  their  cheeks  are  painted 
and  until  their  poor,  sentimental  old  hearts  have 
beaten  for  the  last  time.  It  was  such  a  look 
that  Eugenie  cast  upon  him. 

"A  demoiselle  to  see  m'sieu'  le  marquis,"  was 
all  she  said. 

The  marquis  starea,  thinking  he  had  misun 
derstood,  for  she  enunciated  poorly  with  her 
two  remaining  teeth. 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY          321 

UA  demoiselle  to  see  m'sieu'  le  marquis," 
she  repeated,  and  added:  "elle  a  Yair  tres  bien. 
Elle  a  un  chic — "  and  up  went  her  big,  red  hands 
to  high  heaven,  doubtless  in  search  of  a  superla 
tive  adjective. 

"Her  name?"  ventured  the  marquis. 

uShe  did  not  give  it,  m'sieuV 

"Tell  her  to  come  up,"  said  the  marquis 
shortly. 

"At  this  hour — "  Eugenie  began. 

"Enough,"  said  the  marquis. 

The  servant  hobbled  out  muttering  to  her 
self:  "It  is  that  monsieur  le  marquis  is  still 
dangerous,"  might  have  been  the  trend  of  her 
remarks,  but  the  marquis  chose  not  to  hear. 

He  was  pretending  to  work  when  his  visitor 
entered,  so  that  he  did  not  see  until  later  that 
she  was  young  and  slim  and  fair;  that  she  had 
Mediterranean  eyes  he  might  have  written  a 
dozen  poems  about;  that  she  had  a  wide,  humor 
ous  mouth,  apparently  made  to  reveal  rather 
than  to  conceal  two  rows  of  white  teeth  as 
small  as  a  child's.  Later,  too,  he  noticed  that 
she  possessed  a  child's  dimple  at  each  side  of 
that  smiling  mouth.  She  was  dressed  as  though 
she  had  just  come  from  the  opera — a  cloak  of 
dark-green  velvet  trimmed  with  ermine,  which 
she  held  closely  about  her  with  her  left  hand. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  and  then,  doubtfully: 
"Mademoiselle?" 

"Monsieur."  This  with  a  short  little  nod 
and  in  a  voice  that  would  have  been  cold  had  it 


322          'A   YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

not  been  warmed  by  the  sunshine  of  those  un 
quiet  dimples. 

"I  may  talk  in  English?"  she  inquired.  "I 
am  told  that  you  speak  it  perfectly.  My  French 
is  too  shockingly  slangy  to  be  employed  in  the 
presence  of  an  Academician." 

"You  may  speak  Chinese  if  you  wish,"  he 
hastened  to  assure  her,  for  she  was  quite  ir 
resistible.  "Meanwhile  give  yourself  the  pains 
to  sit  down." 

She  sat  down  gracefully  but  abruptly — all 
her  actions  were  abrupt — and  the  marquis  per 
ceived  that  she  wore  American  slippers.  Even 
then  he  suspected  nothing. 

She  regarded  him  steadily  for  several  sec 
onds,  her  chin  resting  in  her  hand  and  her  elbow 
on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"You  don't  look  like  a  monster,"  she  re 
marked  placidly  at  length.  "A  bit  pompous, 
perhaps,  and  a  bit  vain.  I  imagine  that  you 
think  a  great  deal  more  of  conventions  than 
you  should.  If  I  were  a  professor  of  palmistry 
I  should  say  that  you  allowed  your  mind  to 
govern  your  heart." 

"In  your  presence,  madame,"  murmured  the 
marquis,  "my  heart  is  perforce  a  slave." 

"Don't  talk  like  a  booE,"  she  returned  em 
phatically.  "Oh,  if  you  could  only  forget  for 
one  minute  that  you  are  a  marquis  de  Beau- 
voisin  and  an  Academician,  and  that  all  the 
women  in  Paris  adore  your  poetry,  and  all  the 
men  laugh  at  it — because  they  do,  you  know — 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY          323 

I  think  that  you  would  be  a  perfectly  charming 
old  gentleman." 

It  is  to  be  doubted  if  the  marquis  relished  the 
adjective. 

"Madame,"  he  said  somewhat  bitterly,  "the 
old  gentleman  is  overcome." 

"I  thought  he  would  be,"  she  replied  and  fell 
silent.  Then  she  said,  abruptly:  "Aren't  you 
ever  lonely?  Don't  you  miss  having  friends — 
relatives  about?" 

"My  friends  are  my  books,"  he  answered; 
"they  have  proven  more  satisfactory  than  the 
only  relative  I  have  in  the  world.  And  then 
there  is  always  Eugenie." 

"This  only  relative  is  your  son,  is  it  not?" 

"But  yes,  madame." 

"Why  do  you  dislike  him  so  ?  What  has  he 
ever  done  to  you  that  you  should  have  dis 
charged  him  like  a  servant?  Don't  you  love  him 
at  all  ?  Don't  you  love  him  if  only  on  account  of 
his  mother  who  loved  him  and  whom  you  loved? 
Oh,  forgive  me — I  am  taking  great  liberties  in 
speaking  to  you  like  this;  but  you  see,  I  am  in 
terested  in  this  son  of  yours.  He  is  everything 
to  me  that  is  glorious  and  beautiful  in  this 
world,  and  I  feel  that  I  robbed  him  of  a  father 
when  I  became  his  wife." 

The  marquis  looked  up  at  her  sharply  and 
his  eyes  softened;  but  he  made  no  movement 
toward  her.  You  could  see  Pride,  hitherto 
firmly  enthroned  in  his  heart,  doing  battle  with 
Sympathy  and  Admiration.  "Are  you  about  to 


324  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

throw  aside  all  your  traditions,"  whispered 
Pride,  uon  account  of  the  first  wheedling  petti 
coat  you  encounter?"  The  marquis  declared  the 
battle  a  draw  and  temporized.  He  regarded  her 
closely  for  the  first  time,  and  found  much  to 
praise  and  little  to  find  fault  with.  What  was 
he  to  do  ?  How  should  he  answer  ? 

Finally  he  hit  upon  the  most  unfortunate 
remark  he  could  have  chosen. 

"Has  my  son,"  he  said,  "sent  you  to  me  to 
intercede  in  his  behalf?" 

"Not  he,"  she  retorted  hotly;  "he  is  a  Beau- 
voisin,  like  yourself,  and  far  too  stiff-necked." 

He  puzzled  an  instant  over  "stiff-necked" 
before  grasping  its  connotation.  As  he  was 
about  to  speak  she  continued  hurriedly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  have  come  here  to  ask 
you  a  favor — but  it  is  a  favor  of  a  different 
sort.  Paul,  my  husband,  requests  you  to  cease 
sending  him  an  allowance — those  fifteen  thou 
sand  francs,  you  know." 

"To  cease  seeding  it!"  echoed  the  marquis. 

She  nodded  her  head  vigorously,  but  there 
was  a  smile  lurking  in  her  eyes. 

"Exactly,"  she  said;  "you  have  grasped  it." 

"And  pray  why  does  he  wish  me  to  cease 
sending  it?" 

"You  see,"  she  began,  "it  is  a  long  story. 
Paul  is  very  fond  of  you,  but  he  is  more  fond  of 
me.  Does  that  surprise  you?  I  hope  so.  In 
fact,  Paul  would  have  done  almost  anything 
in  the  world  for  you  except  give  me  up.  But 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY  325 

there  is  just  where  the  hitch  comes.  We  feel 
that  we  ought  not  to  live  together  on  your 
money  when  you  are  not  desirous  that  we  should 
live  together  at  all.  Of  course,  I  appreciate 
your  position.  I  realize  that  I  am  nothing  but 
an  American,  but  it  seems  that  my  father  was 
handling  a  railroad  while  you  were  handling  a 
pen.  I  do  not  attempt  to  say  which  is  the  more 
lucrative ;  in  any  case  the  glory  and  the  decora 
tions  are  all  on  your  lapel.  But  you  have  brand 
ed  me  as  the  daughter  of  a  laborer,  and  hence 
not  worthy  to  be  the  daughter-in-law  of  a  poet. 
I  wonder  if  you  know  how  many  poets  were 
fathered  by  laborers." 

"Excuse  me,  madame,"  interrupted  the  mar 
quis;  "pray  do  not  allow  this  to  become  a  dis 
cussion  of  the  breeding  of  poets.  God  places 
them  in  every  sphere  of  life,  and  the  air  that 
they  breathe  is  neither  that  of  the  stable  nor 
that  of  the  salon,  but  the  air  of  heaven.  It  is 
called  the  divine  breath." 

He  felt  immediately  that  he  had  scored,  while 
she,  for  her  part,  rejoiced  to  have  discovered 
a  more  human  note  in  him.  She  rose  to  her 
feet  and,  coming  quickly  toward  him  across  the 
room,  seated  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair 
and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

"My  dearest  father-in-law,"  she  said,  "you 
are  quite,  quite  right,  and  you  really  have  some 
very  nice  ideas — all  of  which  persuades  me  that 
you  will  listen  to  reason;  because,  you  see,  I 
came  not  only  to  ask  you  to  stop  making  us  an 


326  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

allowance,  but  also  to  beseech  you  to  be  friends 
again  with  your  son.  Now  look  at  me !  Am  I 
such  an  impossible  person  to  be  the  wife  even 
of  a  Beauvoisin?  After  all,  you  know,  you 
Beauvoisins  are  no  great  beauties.  You,  your 
self,  are  sweet  with  your  dear  little  pointed  gray 
beard  and  your  lovely  mustaches,  but  your  eyes 
are  set  too  close  together  and  your  forehead 
is  too  high,  and — dear  me,  you  have  lost  a  great 
deal  of  your  hair.  Of  course  I  am  not  a  para 
gon,  but  you  must  admit  that  I  have  all  my  teeth 
and  am  sound  in  wind  and  limb.  Don't  you 
think  I  am  the  least  bit  nice  ?" 

She  stood  up  and  held  out  her  hands — slim, 
white  hands — and  then  laid  them  on  his. 

"I  think,"  responded  the  marquis  warmly, 
"that  you  are  charming." 

"Well,  then,"  she  continued  briskly,  "what 
is  to  prevent  a  reconciliation?  We  have  a 
motto  in  America — in  North  America — which 
reads :  'United  we  stand;  divided  we  fall  P  Can 
you  not  apply  that  to  the  house  of  Beauvoisin 
and  arrange  a  sort  of  Hague  conference  on  a 
small  scale  ?  I,  for  one,  am  sure  that  you  would 
rather  have  us  around  to  bother  your  evenings 
once  in  a  while  than  to  play  backgammon  with 
some  old  spectacled  high-brow.  You  do  play 
backgammon,  don't  you? — and  I  bet  that  you 
consider  it  one  of  the  world's  greatest  games 
of  chance !" 

"It  is  a  game,  I  admit,1'  said  the  marquis, 
"that  I  play  with  some  success  and  no  little 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY  327 

pleasure.  Allow  me,  though,  to  hint  that  back 
gammon,  my  dear  madame,  has  little  if  any 
connection  with  the  subject  in  hand.  Although 
I  cannot  say  that  your  appeal  has  left  me  un 
moved,  you  must  bear  in  mind  that  treaties  of 
peace  are  seldom  proposed  and  signed  upon  the 
same  day;  also,  may  I  state,  that  hitherto  I  have 
received  no  direct  appeal  from  my  son,  and  it 
is  with  him  that  I  am  displeased.  Against  you 
yourself  I  could  and  would  bear  no  grudge ;  for, 
although  it  is  doubtless  your  fault  that  you  are 
a  most  charming  young  woman,  the  responsibil 
ity  of  your  marriage  must  rest  upon  the  shoul 
ders  of  my  son.  I  hope  I  have  made  myself 
clear  without  offending  your  sensibilities.  I 
find  myself  in  a  delicate  and  difficult  position, 
and,  as  I  have  suggested,  I  must  demand  full 
leisure  to  consider  the  matter.'* 

The  marquis  arose  from  his  chair  and  bowed 
low,  a  kindly  smile  on  his  lips. 

"And  now,  madame/1  he  said,  "may  we  not 
consider  the  hostilities  at  an  end,  and  a  truce 
declared  while  we  ponder  the  terms  of  the 
peace?'1 

The  girl  thanked  him  with  shining  eyes,  rose 
to  her  feet  to  collect  her  belongings,  gave  him 
her  hand  to  be  kissed,  and  turned  to  the  door. 
Once  there  she  paused  and  looked  back  at  him 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "my 
name  is  Sarah;  you  and  my  other  friends  call 
me  Sally." 


328  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

He  heard  her  footsteps  go  tapping  down  the 
stairs,  and  he  sat  alone,  erect  but  rather  wistful, 
behind  his  broad  carved  table  with  its  litter  of 
manuscript.  About  him  floated  like  a  sweetly 
subtle  incense  the  scent  that  she  used;  and  he 
sighed  deeply  as  he  turned  to  his  work,  for  he 
felt  very  much  alone. 

It  was  not  until  the  following  day,  however, 
that  his  loneliness  was  intruded  upon  by  one 
of  his  few  intimates,  Dr.  Etienne  Miromesnil. 
The  doctor  entered  with  brusqueness  that 
stamped  him  a  man  of  energy.  He  wore,  as 
usual,  an  immaculate  frock  coat  with  the  red 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  glowing  in  the  lapel.  He 
was  a  heavy,  much-bearded  man  and  his  small, 
gray  eyes  snapped  and  twinkled  behind  a  pair 
of  huge  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses.  These  eyes 
of  his  were  the  only  indications  his  patients 
might  have  to  lead  them  to  suspect  that  he  did 
not  treat  their  imaginary  ailments  with  the  ut 
most  seriousness ;  for  the  doctor  was  no  disciple 
of  the  jocular  bedside  manner.  Rather  he  be 
came  stern  and  monosyllabic  in  treating  alike  a 
cold  or  a  cancer. 

"To-night,"  he  began  without  prelude,  "I 
am  taking  you  to  dine  with  our  friends,  the  Due 
and  Duchesse  de  la  Tourelle  d'lvray.  Ma 
dame  O'Brian  is  to  be  there.  She  is  a  delight 
ful  woman  who  suffers  occasionally  from  slight 
affections  of  the  tonsils.  Her  case  is  not  seri 
ous;  indeed,  she  has  survived  her  husband." 


'A   YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY          329 

The  marquis  had  risen,  for  to  him  all  formal 
ities  were  instinct. 

"How  do  you  do,  Etienne?"  he  said.  "I  am 
truly  pleased  to  see  you.  We  dine  where  did 
you  say  to-night?" 

"With  the  Duchesse  de  la  Tourelle  d'lvray," 
repeated  the  doctor.  "At  present  you  lunch 
with  me  at  Laperouse." 

"Why  will  you  not  lunch  with  me  here? — it 


is  more  convenient." 


"Here?  Lunch  here?  Your  Eugenie  takes 
away  my  appetite.  I  continue  to  see  those  two 
remaining  teeth  of  hers,  and,  in  sympathy  with 
her,  I  also  find  it  difficult  to  chew  the  chdteau- 
briand.  Besides,  she  cooks  abominably  and 
there  is  no  pepper  in  anything.  No,  we  will 
lunch  at  Laperouse." 

So  the  doctor,  as  usual,  gaining  his  point,  to 
Laperouse  they  went  and  seated  themselves  in 
one  of  the  low-ceilinged  rooms  that  look  out 
upon  the  quay. 

The  doctor,  no  sooner  seated,  rose  quickly 
to  his  feet  and,  traversing  the  room  in  a  few 
quick  strides,  bowed  low  to  one  of  two  women 
who  were  taking  their  after-luncheon  coffee  at 
a  far  table.  She  smiled  on  him,  nodded  her 
head,  and  then,  evidently  in  reply  to  some  ques 
tion,  glanced  over  toward  the  marquis.  Again 
she  nodded  and  smiled  graciously  and  forthwith 
the  doctor  returned  to  fetch  the  marquis  to  her. 

"It  is  Madame  O'Brian,"  he  said,  "and  her 


330  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

throat  is  much  better.  You  must  be  presented 
to  her.  She  is  delightful." 

The  marquis  had  taken  occasion  to  cast  al 
ready  an  interested  eye  upon  the  lady  in  ques 
tion.  To  a  Frenchman  all  women  are  worthy 
of  a  glance,  and,  indeed,  the  woman  who  re 
ceives  it  not  is  crestfallen  as  a  debutante  whose 
first  ball  has  been  a  failure. 

Madame  O'Brian  was  decidedly  worthy  of  a 
glance.  She  was  a  widow  of  perhaps  forty, 
without  a  gray  hair,  without  a  wrinkle  except 
for  a  few  tiny  lines  about  her  eyes  that  had 
doubtless  come  from  too  much  good-humor; 
for  she  smiled  often,  and  when  she  did  so  her 
lids  came  so  close  together  that  one  could  see 
nothing  of  her  eyes  save  a  narrow  line  of  twink 
ling  blue.  Her  hair  was  as  black  as  ebony,  but 
far  brighter.  Her  lips  I  am  afraid  she  rouged 
— oh,  just  a  touch — but  this  hint  of  artificiality, 
which,  indeed,  was  far  from  repellent,  was  off 
set  by  the  comely  naturalness  of  the  tiny  freckles 
that  traversed  the  bridge  of  her  nose  from 
cheek  to  cheek.  Irish  she  was,  of  course,  for 
no  Frenchwoman,  thought  the  marquis,  was 
ever  guilty  of  freckles;  and  forthwith  he  de 
cided  that  they  were  no  blemish,  but  served,  like 
the  mouches  of  the  Renaissance,  to  emphasize 
the  true  whiteness  of  the  skin. 

"And  it's  you  that  wrote  'Au  Coeur  de  la 
Rose'!"  exclaimed  Madame  O'Brian.  "  'Tis 
lovely  poetry.  I  was  reading  it  this  morning. 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY  331 

I  read  the  whole  of  the  book  in  an  hour  and  a 
half,  with  never  a  look  at  my  French-English." 

The  marquis  was  somewhat  shocked  at  the 
rapidity  of  the  perusal  and  somewhat  mystified 
as  to  the  meaning  of  "French-English." 

"My  pocket  dictionary,"  she  explained, 
laughing.  "It  and  Baedeker  and  the  poor  are 
always  with  me.  Also,  if  she  will  excuse  me 
for  including  her  in  such  a  gathering,  Fraulein 
Hiipper,  who  speaks  three  languages  fluently 
and  .not  one  of  them  English,  for  which  the 
saints  be  praised!"  Thus  she  introduced  the 
placid  German  woman  opposite  her  with  a 
graceful  wave  of  the  hand.  The  Fraulein  bowed 
her  head  stiffly  and  muttered  things  unintelligible 
in  several  different  languages.  Then  she  con 
tinued  to  drink  her  coffee  with  great  zest  and 
no  little  noise. 

"But  bless  you,  marquis,"  Madame  O'Brian 
continued  immediately,  "there  wasn't  a  word 
in  your  book  that  I  had  to  look  up !  A  child 
could  have  read  it,  and  a  child  could  have  writ 
ten  it — oh,  don't  be  after  misunderstanding  me; 
I  mean  it's  the  simplicity  of  a  child  and  the 
sweetness  of  a  child  that  you  have  put  into  the 
words." 

"Madame,"  said  the  marquis,  "you  do  me 
too  much  honor." 

"Marquis,"  she  answered,  "the  little  I  can 
do  is  not  enough."  And  with  that  they  sep 
arated,  each  much  pleased  with  the  other. 

The  doctor  ordered  a  lavish  luncheon  and 


332  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

ate  like  twenty  men,  as  usual.  The  marquis 
was  not  hungry.  Disturbing  events  had  been 
crowding  into  his  tranquil  life  of  late,  and  he 
found  that  some  of  his  staunchest  prejudices 
were  being  wofully  upset.  Two  American 
women  in  two  days,  and  each  of  them  as  charm 
ing  as  the  other.  Was  it  possible,  then,  that 
Americans  were  not  savages?  Hitherto  he  had 
held  them  to  be  an  uncouth,  vociferous  tribe, 
white-skinned,  to  be  sure,  and  fully  clad,  but 
nevertheless  little  removed  in  mentality,  and 
breeding  from  the  nose-ringed  Hottentot.  This 
decision  apparently  had  to  be  reversed  or  at 
least  modified. 

The  doctor  spoke  just  before  the  salad  ap 
peared. 

"Excellent  book  your  son  has  just  published," 
he  said.  "You  will  be  having  him  soon  in  the 
Academy,  I  suppose."  And  he  chuckled  softly, 
for  he  was  aware  of  the  existing  relations  be 
tween  the  marquis  and  his  offspring. 

"Book  ?"  queried  the  marquis.  "What  book  ? 
I  have  seen  no  book." 

"It  is  called  'L'Independance,'  "  said  the 
doctor.  "The  story  of  his  own  life,  I  should 
imagine.  Don't  worry,  he's  let  you  off  easily; 
too  easily,  I  think.  In  any  case  it  is  an  excel 
lent  book." 

The  marquis  made  a  mental  note  of  the  title, 
but  answered  nothing.  There  was  a  pause 
while  the  doctor  devoured  his  endives.  Then 
the  marquis  asked  tentatively:  "What  is  your 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY  333 


opinion  of  Americans — er,  North  Americans, 
I  mean?" 

"Charming  people,"  replied  the  doctor 
promptly,  "charming  people,  charming  ways, 
charming  women,  charming  incomes." 

"Hum,"  said  the  marquis. 

After  luncheon  the  two  separated. 

"You  to  hymn  a  lady's  limb,"  explained  the 
doctor,  "I  to  amputate  one." 

On  his  return  the  marquis  found  waiting 
for  him  an  informal  note  from  the  Duchesse 
de  la  Tourelle  d'lvray,  bidding  him  dine  with 
her  that  night  "to  meet  Madame  O'Brian." 
He  was  strangely  pleased  and  despatched  an 
immediate  acceptance;  and  then  he  said  to  him 
self  in  self-defence:  "One  cannot  seem  to  avoid 
these  Americans;  they  enter  everywhere." 

For  several  weeks  after  the  dinner  of  the 
Duchesse  de  la  Tourelle  d'lvray  the  marquis 
was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  apartment  of  Ma 
dame  O'Brian  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois.  Frankly 
and  with  no  circumlocutions  she  had  invited  him 
to  come  to  see  her  as  often  as  he  cared  to  do  so. 

"Do  not  come,"  she  had  warned  him,  "on 
my  days  at  home;  there  are  too  many  people: 
penniless  titles,  and  sticky  musicians,  and  anse- 
mic  poets — no,  you're  not  anaemic — and  out 
cast  Americans  clad  in  cloth  of  gold.  It  sounds 
like  the  Tower  of  Babel  with  incidental  music 
by  Strauss.  Come  Friday  at  half-past  five." 

That  night  the  marquis  walked  home  down 
the  Champs-Elysees  with  strange,  new  thoughts 


334  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

coursing  through  his  brain.  He  felt  delightfully 
bewildered  and  at  the  same  time  happily  con 
fident.  He  walked  as  a  youth  of  twenty,  inhal 
ing  with  zest  the  cool,  sweet  air  of  the  April 
evening.  Already  the  green  of  the  horse-chest 
nut  trees  was  beginning  to  blur  the  gaunt  out 
lines  of  the  branches,  and  the  soft,  damp  earth 
under  foot  had  that  elasticity  that  betokens 
spring.  Ahead  of  him  glowed  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  a  mass  of  garish  light  that  paled  the 
stars  in  the  blue-black  heavens. 

He  crossed  the  Pont  Royal  and  then  turned 
to  the  left  down  the  quays.  The  river  was  high, 
swollen  by  the  March  thaws  and  April  rains, 
and,  as  he  leaned  over  the  balustrade,  it  seemed 
uncannily  near  him.  Some  scrub  trees  along  the 
opposite  bank,  immersed  to  their  middles,  cast 
uncouth,  wavering  shadows  upon  the  discolored 
torrent.  Overhead  a  pale  moon  swung  behind 
a  streaming  cloud. 

"Ah,  belle  nuit  d'amour,"  sighed  the  mar 
quis,  "what  is  coming  over  me,  I  wonder.  Is  it 
what  the  Americans  call  so  delightfully  'Indian 
summer/  or  is  it  that  an  old  man  is  becoming 
young  once  more?" 

And,  strangely  enough,  it  was  that  evening 
that  the  marquis,  as  he  unlatched  his  apartment 
door,  felt  himself  to  be  sadly  lonely  in  a  very 
happy  world. 

During  several  days  that  followed  Eugenie 
noted  with  alarm  and  no  little  indignation 
various  changes  in  the  habits  and  the  conversa- 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY  335 

tion  and  the  dress  of  her  master.  Prominent 
among  these  innovations  were  several  suits  of 
clothes  from  an  English  tailor  in  the  Boulevard 
Malesherbes,  and  perhaps  half  a  dozen  pairs 
of  shoes,  forme  americaine,  from  a  bootmaker 
in  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera.  Also  she  bewailed 
the  fact  that  the  marquis  carried  a  stick  instead 
of  his  customary  umbrella,  and  that,  even  on 
rainy  days,  he  scorned  galoshes. 

"It  is  a  child  that  he  is,"  she  lamented. 

One  fine  April  afternoon  she  shuffled  herself 
into  the  marquis's  presence,  disapproval  on  her 
face  and  a  visiting-card  in  her  hand. 

"Est-ce-que  m'sieu*  le  marquis  pent  voir  cette 
dame?"  she  said,  still  retaining  the  card. 

"What  lady?"  the  marquis  inquired  quickly. 

"I  know  nothing,"  answered  Eugenie;  "it  is 
the  one  that  came  before — the  little  blonde." 

"Ah,"  said  the  marquis,  "yes.    Show  her  in." 

It  was  his  daughter-in-law,  Sally,  of  course, 
with  April  roses  in  her  cheeks. 

"Where  did  you  pluck  them?"  said  the  mar 
quis,  bowing  low. 

"Pluck  what?"  asked  she,  puzzled. 

"The  roses,"  answered  the  marquis,  pointing. 

She  laughed,  looking  at  him  critically  with 
her  head  on  one  side. 

"Young  man,"  she  said,  "may  I  ask  you 
where  you  dropped  ten  years?" 

"I  think  it  must  have  been  in  the  Luxembourg 
gardens  this  morning,"  he  answered;  "they  are 
wonderful  rejuvenators  in  springtime." 


336  A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "so  you  feel  it  in  your  veins, 
too.  Isn't  it  wonderful?  How  does  it  affect 
you  I  wonder.  Do  you  pat  dogs  and  kiss 
babies? — that's  what  I  do." 

"No,"  he  said  doubtfully,  "not  quite  that. 
I  —  er  —  read  Musset,  and  put  my  fur  coat 
away  in  camphor  and  write  maudlin  verse  that 
the  editors  are  wise  enough  to  return." 

"Nothing  more?"  she  insisted. 

"Sometimes  I  throw  open  this  window — thus 
— and  look  out  at  the  sun  shining  through  the 
trees  on  my  old  friend,  the  Seine.  And  I  see 
the  lazy  barges  and  the  excited  little  pleasure- 
boats  go  by  down  the  river  to  St.  Cloud,  and 
Suresnes,  and  up  the  river  to  Charenton;  and 
I  watch  that  old  gray-bearded  fellow  incessantly 
dusting  and  arranging  his  books  there,  on  the 
quay;  and  that  line  of  cabs,  each  with  its  pa 
tient  horse  hanging  his  head  to  reach  his  feed- 
bag;  and  the  fat  cockers,  dozing  lazily  on  their 
seats  or  hurling  at  each  other  terrible  epithets 
out  of  the  fulness  of  their  hearts.  And  I  won 
der  to  myself  whether  all  those  charming 
people,  men,  women,  and  beasts,  are  aware  that 
it  is  April,  and  that  spring  is  about  to  dress 
Paris  for  her  gala  season.  Ah,  April!  Blessed 
month  of  April!  Month  of  sprouting  grasses 
and  bursting  buds,  and  laughing  children,  and 
all  growing  things !  Month  of  tears  and  laugh 
ter,  of  rain  and  sun — laughter  dancing  through 
tears,  and  each  more  beautiful  than  the  other. 
Month  of  lovers  walking  hand  in  hand  in  gar- 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY  337 

dens,  of  birds  singing  to  each  other  in  the  green 
ing  branches,  of  children  rolling  hoops  and  fly 
ing  kites  in  the  damp,  earthy  paths.  Month 
when  the  good  rain  washes  away  the  grime  and 
crime  of  the  winter,  and  the  sun  gilds  the  dome 
of  the  Invalides  anew.  Ah,  Paris,  let  April 
dress  you  beautifully  that  you  may  gladden  the 
hearts  of  the  thousands  of  lovers  who  are  soon 
to  whisper  such  wonderful  things  to  each  other 
in  your  Elysian  fields !" 

"And  you,"  said  Sally  softly — uand  you? 
Do  you  never  wish  that  you,  too,  might  whisper 
something  wonderful  to  some  one — something 
that  would  cause  poor,  susceptible  Paris  to 
smile  a  little,  and  to  cry  a  little,  and  to  turn  an 
approving  deaf  ear?" 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  said  the  marquis,  "I  was 
young.  Do  you  think  me  very  old — too  old?" 

"Bless  your  heart,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  sure 
but  what  I  think  you  too  young." 

He  turned  from  the  window  to  find  her  stand 
ing  beside  him,  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  The 
scent  that  she  used  stole  about  him  like  a  mist, 
and  somehow  out  of  that  mist  there  rose  be 
fore  him  the  face  of  Madame  O'Brian. 

"God  of  the  Bow,"  he  exclaimed,  "they  use 
the  same  perfume !  I  am  lost !" 

He  collected  his  wits  with  an  effort. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said;  "I  have  been  talking 
a  great  deal  of  nonsense  for  an  old  gentleman. 
I  am  somewhat  overwrought — nerves.  I  had 
a  restless  night." 


338          A    YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  think  you  are  in  love. 
Tonics  are  of  no  avail;  you  must  nurse  it  care 
fully."  And  she  kissed  lightly  the  tip  of  his 
mustache  and  left  him  to  his  visionings. 

When  a  lonely  gentleman  of  fifty-two  has 
dreams  by  day,  and  when  those  day-dreams  in 
variably  resolve  themselves  into  the  portrait 
of  a  charming  Irish-American  widow,  then  well 
may  Cupid  laugh,  for  his  aim  has  been  true. 
But,  naturally  enough,  the  marquis  was  slow  in 
realizing  his  malady,  and  it  was  well  nigh  the 
end  of  April  before  he  summoned  the  courage 
and  the  resolution  to  recount  his  symptoms  to 
Madame  O'Brian. 

She  read  his  thoughts  at  first  glance,  for  there 
was  that  in  his  eyes  which  admitted  no  misinter 
pretation.  But,  woman-like,  she  parried  and 
evaded.  With  wanton  cruelty  she  showed  him 
a  photograph  of  her  former  husband. 

"It  is  six  years  now  that  he  is  dead,"  she  said. 
"I  mourned  him  deeply  for  eighteen  months. 
But  then  it  was  my  daughter  that  I  had  to  be 
thinking  of,  for  I  had  to  be  choosing  a  good 
husband  for  her,  and  young  men  avoid  crape. 
I  found  the  man,  though — or,  rather,  she  found 
the  man." 

She  laughed  and  regarded  him  amusedly. 

"He  is  lucky,"  said  the  marquis,  "if  the 
daughter  resembles  the  mother." 

"Will  you  listen  to  him !"  she  cried.  "That 
is  what  we  in  Ireland  call  'blarney.'  ' 

"I  had  thought  it  a  Gallic  vice,"  said  he. 


A    YOUNG   MAN'S   FANCY  339 

"Perhaps,"  she  answered,  "but  Gaul  was 
once  divided  into  three  parts,  and  the  Irish  are 
Celts.  '/«  ipsorum  lingua  Celta,  nostra  Galli 
appelantur.'  So  you  see,  I  am  as  Gallic  as  you 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  despise  me  for  an 
American." 

"Ah,  madame,"  the  marquis  hastened  to  as 
sure  her,  "I  admire  your  race.  In  particular 
I  admire  the  women  of  it;  and  more  particularly 
still  do  I  admire  one  woman." 

She  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  was  not  to  be 
stopped. 

"Margaret  O'Brian,"  he  said  resolutely.  "I 
admire  you  and  I  love  you,  and  I  need  you,  for 
I  am  a  very  lonely  old  man." 

She  looked  at  him  and  his  heart  rejoiced,  for 
she  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  soft. 
Nevertheless  she  demurred. 

"Is  it  quite  sure  you  are  that  you  want  me?" 
she  asked.  "We  are  neither  of  us  young." 

"Love  is  immortal,"  he  replied,  "and  it  be 
comes  gray  hairs  as  well  as  golden.  It  adds 
buoyancy  to  age  and  dignity  to  youth.  It  is  the 
end,  the  goal  of  all  breathing  things.  It  is  for 
love  that  God  in  His  wisdom,  made  the  spring 
time,  and,  behold,  it  is  even  now  May." 

"But,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his,  "I 
am  an  American." 

"You  are  a  goddess,"  he  cried;  "they  are 
cosmopolites." 

"And  so,"  she  said  slowly,  "you  want  to 
marry  me  in  spite  of  my  age,  in  spite  of  my 


340  A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

nationality,  in  spite  of  our  brief  acquaintance, 
in  spite  of  my  wealth." 

"Are  you  wealthy?"  he  asked.  "I  did  not 
know  it;  but  I  would  marry  you  if  you  were 
as  rich  as  Monsieur  Rockefeller." 

She  smiled  and  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  then 
rose,  leaned  over  her,  and  kissed  her  lips.  She 
still  smiled — enigmatically,  sphinx-like. 

"There  is  one  more  thing,"  she  said.  "We 
shall  have  to  ask  your  son  and  his  wife  to  the 
wedding.  Do  you  think  they  will  come?" 

"And  why  should  they  not  come?"  he 
questioned. 

"Faith,"  she  said,  "it  was  you  that  would  not 
think  of  going  to  theirs.  Why  should  they  be 
bothering  to  come  to  yours?" 

"But,"  he  said,  at  a  loss,  "my  son  married 
an  American  too.  He  is  fond  of  Americans, 
and  his  wife  is  quite  presentable.  I  know  her 
slightly.  She  has  honored  me  with  a  visit  or 


two." 


"And  you?  You  have  not  honored  them 
with  a  visit  or  two?" 

He  stammered  in  some  confusion.  She  gave 
his  hand  a  kindly  little  squeeze. 

"There,  there,"  she  said  soothingly,  "bless 
the  man.  He  is  all  excited.  He  sees  himself 
as  the  kettle  calling  the  pot  black.  Never  you 
be  minding,  it's  not  Margaret  O'Brian  that  will 
be  scolding  you,  but  it's  Margaret  O'Brian  that 
will  be  kissing  you  and  be  helping  you  into  your 
overcoat  and  sending  you  home.  And  when 


A   YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY          341 

you  have  asked  your  son  and  your  daughter-in- 
law  to  meet  her  —  why  then  it's  Margaret 
O'Brian  that  will  be  marrying  you;  and  God's 
blessing  be  on  your  head  and  hers." 

The  marquis  was  thus  rendered  the  happiest 
man  in  Paris,  which  is  perhaps  next  door  to  be 
ing  the  happiest  man  in  Paradise.  His  Eugenie, 
toothless  almost  and  sandal-shod,  knew  him  no 
longer.  For  two  days  he  strode  about  his  little 
library  in  his  new  clothes,  trying  to  whistle,  at 
tempting  to  sing,  and  radiating  joy.  And  on 
the  day  preceding  the  reception,  at  which  he 
planned  to  introduce  his  son  and  his  son's  wife 
to  his  delectable  Margaret  O'Brian,  he  sum 
moned  to  him  his  house-keeper  and  cried: 
"Eugenie,  to-morrow  we  entertain  royalty; 
bring  forth  the  fatted  calf!  Igitur  gaudeamus" 
Whereupon  Eugenie  once  more  raised  her  hands 
to  high  heaven  and  duly  ordered  an  escalope 
de  veau. 

Mingled  with  the  marquis's  joy  and  anticipa 
tion  was  a  certain  anxiety  which  he  strove  to 
conceal  even  from  himself;  for,  although  a 
choice  slice  of  the  fatted  calf  may  be  the  in 
evitable  food  with  which  to  greet  a  returning 
prodigal  who  has  sinned  and  is  repentant,  what 
one  among  us  can  cook  the  dish  appropriate  to 
the  returning  son  who  has  perhaps  not  sinned, 
and  who  is  certainly  unrepentant? 

But  the  marquis's  fears  proved  unfounded. 
At  four  o'clock  of  the  great  day  came  Ma- 


342  A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY 

dame  O'Brian,  somewhat  in  advance,  in  order 
to  see  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be. 

"Jean-Francois,  Marquis  de  Beauvoisin," 
she  said  sternly,  "I  see  fear  written  on  your 
face." 

"You  have  transformed  it  to  admiration," 
said  the  marquis,  gazing  at  her  with  all  his  eyes. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  she;  "'tis  the  more  worthy 
passion.  But  why  were  you  anxious?" 

The  marquis  swallowed  hard,  for  pride  is 
a  huge  mouthful. 

"I  fear,"  he  said  slowly — "I  fear  that  I  have 
wronged  my  son.  I  have  been  unjust.  I  dis 
owned  him  when  he  married  an  American,  and 
now  I  know  that  I  should  have  gone  on  my 
knees  and  thanked  God." 

She  came  to  him  and  kissed  him. 

"You  are  punished,"  she  said.  "You  have 
atoned  and  are  forgiven." 

There  was  no  time  for  more;  Eugenie  was 
ushering  Sally  and  Sally's  husband  into  the  li 
brary.  The  marquis  stepped  forward  to  meet 
them.  He  laid  his  hands  on  his  son's  shoulders 
and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  "I  am  sorry.  Too  much 
pride  made  me  unfair." 

He  turned  to  look  for  Sally,  and  was  some 
what  disconcerted  to  find  that  she  was  kissing 
Margaret  affectionately.  It  was  then  that  he 
felt  that  something  was  afoot — something  un 
usual  and  beyond  his  comprehension.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  though  he  were  assisting  at  some  play 


A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCY          343 

of  the  plot  of  which  he  was  completely  ignorant. 
He  heard  Sally  say  calmly  to  Madame  O'Brian  : 
"Dear  mother,  what  a  delightful  family  gather 
ing."  As  in  a  dream  he  saw  his  son  advance 
toward  Madame  O'Brian,  kiss  respectfully  her 
hand  and  say  equally  calmly,  though  in  dubious 
English :  "My  homages,  madame,  and  all  my 
compliments  on  your  spring-time  face." 

Margaret  kissed  Sally  and  smiled  on  Sally's 
husband.  Then  she  turned  to  the  marquis,  and, 
out  of  a  black  chaos  of  astonishment  he  heard 
her  soft  voice  saying:  "Yes,  Jean-Francois,  it 
was  a  conspiracy.  But,  faith,  if  you  are  one 
of  its  victims,  it  is  Margaret  O'Brian  that's  the 
other.  We  were  too  clever,  Sally  and  I,  and  my 
heart  is  after  punishing  me.  Sally,  my  daugh 
ter,  you  didn't  warn  me  against  this  father-in- 
law  of  yours — you  that  knew  him.  And  it's  a 
poor  weak  woman  I  am." 

She  stopped  and  held  out  her  hands  to  the 
marquis. 

"Will  you  have  me,  Jean-Frangois,  as  Sally's 
mother  or " 

"I  will  have  you  as  my  wife,  Margaret 
O'Brian,"  said  the  marquis,  and  his  heart  was 
singing,  for  he  knew  that  he  would  never  be 
lonely  again. 


THE  RETURN 


THE    RETURN 

THE  room  was  on  the  attic  floor,  a  bare,  cold 
little  room  wedged  into  the  angle  formed  by 
the  mansard  roof.  The  one  window  that  it 
boasted  was  round  —  ceil-de-bceuf,  the  French 
call  it — and  stared,  like  an  unwinking  Cyclops, 
across  the  rue  Clotilde  at  the  Pantheon.  At 
present  it  was  securely  shut,  lest  some  gust  of 
wind  from  the  February  night  should  steal  in 
to  flicker  the  candles.  There  were  two  candles 
— one  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  the  other  at  the 
foot. 

Near  the  window  was  a  wash-stand  on  which 
stood  a  tin  pitcher  and  basin  and  a  cracked 
glass  decanter  yellowed  by  long  service.  Against 
the  wall  opposite  the  bed  was  a  spindle-legged 
table  covered  with  a  red-checked  cloth  and  lit 
tered  with  cheap  toilet  articles  —  a  brush,  a 
comb,  a  button-hook,  a  tray  of  hairpins,  powder, 
a  half-used  rouge-stick.  On  the  same  wall, 
from  a  row  of  hooks,  hung  a  blue-serge  skirt 
and  jacket,  a  stained,  rose-colored  chiffon  dress, 
a  plaid  petticoat,  and  a  black  cloak  with  some 
shabby  fur  at  the  collar.  Then  there  was  a 
chest  of  drawers,  unpainted,  lacking  one  caster 
and  two  glass  knobs  that  should  have  served 
as  handles.  No  other  furniture  except  the  bed 
and  the  two  chairs  by  the  bed. 
347 


348  THE   RETURN 


On  the  chairs  sat  two  nuns,  calm,  motionless, 
in  their  black  robes.  It  would  have  been  dif 
ficult  to  guess  their  ages :  one  was  old,  the  other 
not  so  old;  but  both  had  ruddy  cheeks  and  serene 
eyes.  The  elder,  Soeur  Cecile,  was  praying  over 
her  rosary;  the  younger — perhaps  because  she 
was  the  younger — was  gazing  compassionately 
at  the  figure  on  the  bed;  and  on  the  bed,  her 
arms  folded  across  her  breast,  a  crucifix  of 
ebony  and  ivory  in  her  fingers,  peaceful  in 
death  as  she  had  not  been  in  life,  lay  Colette. 
.  .  .  That  was  all — only  Colette. 

"La  pauvre  petite  "  sighed  the  younger  sis 
ter;  "she  has  suffered  much." 

Soeur  Cecile  completed  her  prayer  before  she 
replied.  "Et  lux  perpetua  luceat  ea.  Requiescat 
in  pace.  Amen" 

Then — "She  suffers  no  more,"  she  said. 

"It  seems  always  bitter  when  death  comes 
to  one  so  young,"  whispered  Soeur  Marie- 
Madeleine. 

"It  is  not  death,"  answered  Soeur  Cecile — 
"it  is  the  beginning  of  eternal  life." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  other,  quickly.  .  .  . 
"But  look,  see  how  beautiful  she  is — even  like 
that,  with  her  tired  eyes  closed  and  the  color 
all  gone  from  her  lips  and  cheeks.  It  is  only 
her  hair  that  lives." 

"And  her  soul,"  added  Soeur  Cecile,  reprov 
ingly. 

"Yes,  and  her  soul,"  agreed  Soeur  Marie- 
Madeleine. 


THE   RETURN  349 

"Let  us  pray  that  she  walks  with  God,"  said 
the  elder  sister. 

"Ah,  surely  she  walks  with  God !  Do  we  not 
know  that  she  loved  much,  and  therefore  shall 
not  much  be  forgiven  her?" 

"We  know  that  she  loved  much,  but  we  do 
not  know  that  she  loved  wisely,"  replied  Soeur 
Cecile  with  a  trace  of  severity. 

"Wisely!"  began  Sceur  Marie-Madeleine, 
and  stopped,  abashed.  She  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  fingering  the  crucifix  at  her  breast. 
Then  she  said:  "You  will  write  the  letter, 
Soeur  Cecile — or  I  ?" 

"It  makes  no  difference.    Either  of  us." 

"You  have  the  address?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Soeur  Cecile,  and  she  drew 
from  her  robe  a  folded  sheet  of  paper.  "Paul 
Androuet,"  she  read,  sergeant  17 — th  regiment, 
8th  battalion,  3d  company,  postal  sector  92." 

"That,"  interrupted  the  other,  "is  at  Verdun. 
I  know,  because  at  the  hospital  I  attended  a 
blesse  who  had  but  recently  returned  from 
there.  It  is  a  post  of  great  danger.  Oh,  Soeur 
Cecile,  I  fear  for  her  Paul!  Do  you  suppose 
she  watches  him  now — from  where  she  is?" 

She  bent  over  and  smoothed  back  the  dark 
hair  from  Colette's  forehead. 

"Poor  little  Colette,"  she  whispered;  "how 
much  you  know  now  of  all  the  things  of  which 
we  know  nothing!  Your  eyes  are  closed,  Co 
lette,  and  yet  you  see  far  more  than  we.  .  .  . 
Had  you  not  better  begin  the  letter,  Soeur  Ce- 


350  THE   RETURN 


cile  ?    You  remember  how  urgent  she  was  about 


it" 

Soeur  Cecile  nodded,  rose  from  her  chair, 
and  commenced  to  search  in  the  drawer  of  the 
dressing-table. 

"Here  is  paper  and  pencil,"  she  said  at 
length.  "It  will  do.  ...  What  shall  I  say — 
how  shall  I  begin?" 

Soeur  Marie-Madeleine  hesitated. 

"I  think,"  she  said  finally,  "that  it  is  well  to 
be  quite  simple.  Tell  him  that  she  is  dead,  and 
tell  him  how  she  died — calling  his  name.  And 
tell  him  that  strange  thing  that  she  said  just  be 
fore  she  died.  You  remember?  'Write  to 
him,'  she  said,  'and  say  that  I  will  be  with  him 
when  he  needs  me  the  most/  ' 

"But,"  objected  Soeur  Cecile,  "when  she  said 
that  she  was  delirious  from  the  fever." 

"Nevertheless  it  was  her  request — her  last 
request.  Surely  we  may  not  ignore  it." 

Soeur  Cecile  shook  her  head  dubiously  but 
complied. 

"There,"  she  said;  "and  now  it  is  finished. 
I  am  glad,  for  such  a  letter  is  not  cheerful  to 
write." 

"Nor  to  read,"  murmured  Soeur  Marie- 
Madeleine. 

"I  will  put  it  in  the  post  on  my  way  back 
to  the  hospital.  You  will  be  all  right  here 
alone  to-night?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Soeur  Marie-Madeleine. 

"The  candles  are  low,  but  there  are  more  in 


THE   RETURN  351 

the  drawer  when  it  becomes  time  to  renew  them. 
And  the  woman  down-stairs — the  concierge's 
wife — promised  to  bring  you  up  some  supper. 
It  is  now  six  o'clock,  so  she  should  come  shortly. 
You  will  not  be  afraid?" 

"What  is  there   to   fear?"   answered   Soeur 
Marie-Madeleine.     "It  is  not  the  first  time  I 
have  watched  over  the  dead." 
"Then,  good  night,  my  sister." 
"Good  night.     Do  not  forget  the  letter." 
"Assuredly  not.    I  have  it  here  in  my  robe." 
Soeur  Cecile  knelt  for  an  instant  by  the  bed, 
crossed  herself,  rose  to  her  feet,  and,  treading 
quietly  lest   she   disturb   the   dead,   left   Soeur 
Marie-Madeleine    alone    in    the    room.     The 
flames   of  the   two   candles   flickered  violently 
with  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  door,  and  a 
fold  of  the  sheet  flapped  in  the  draft.    Then  all 
was  quiet  once  more, 


II 


SCEUR  CECILE  posted  the  letter,  but  it  was 
destined  never  to  reach  Sergeant  Paul  An- 
drouet;  for  at  six  o'clock  Paul,  with  a  white 
bandage  around  his  head,  was  on  a  train  for 
Paris.  That  afternoon  there  had  been  an  at 
tack  against  a  German  trench  in  which  the 
17 — th  infantry  played  a  prominent  and  heroic 
role.  The  trench  had  been  captured,  but  it  had 


352  THE   RETURN 


been  a  red  victory  and  many  of  the  17 — th  did 
not  live  to  be  decorated.  Sergeant  Androuet, 
more  fortunate,  was  promised  a  citation  in  the 
reports,  for  "indomitable  courage  and  con 
spicuous  gallantry  in  action."  But,  as  if  to 
counterbalance  the  stroke  of  fortune,  a  stray 
piece  of  shrapnel  had  hit  him  on  the  side  of  the 
head  long  after  the  trench  had  been  won. 

Protesting,  he  had  been  led  to  the  dressing- 
station  in  the  rear,  the  bit  of  shrapnel  had  been 
extracted  and  his  head  bound  up.  It  chanced 
that  his  colonel  was  in  the  station  at  the  time. 

"It  is  a  nasty  cut  that  you  have,  my  friend/' 
said  the  colonel. 

"I  do  not  worry,"  answered  Paul.  "They 
have  not  got  me  yet." 

"You  did  well  to-day,"  continued  the  colonel. 
"How  long  have  you  been  at  the  front?" 

"Eighteen  months,  I  think,"  said  Paul. 

"Ah !    Since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  then  ?" 

"Yes,  my  colonel." 

"And  does  the  prospect  of  the  hospital  de 
light  you?" 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  a  question,  I  suppose,  of  but  a  day  or 
two,"  he  said. 

"What  is  your  opinion  on  that?"  demanded 
the  colonel,  turning  to  the  surgeon  who  had  per 
formed  the  operation. 

"A  week  —  two  weeks.  It  is  difficult  to 
prophesy  concerning  a  wound  in  the  head." 

"Precisely,"     agreed    the     colonel.      "Now, 


THE   RETURN  353 

Sergeant  Androuet,  where  do  you  live — where 
is  your  home?" 

uln  Paris,"  answered  Paul. 

"Good.  You  are  granted  then,  two  weeks' 
leave  to  return  to  Paris.  I  shall  attend  to  the 
formalities.  One  rests  better  and  recovers 
more  rapidly  at  home  than  in  the  hospital.  It 
is  I  who  know  it.  Au  revoir,  my  friend." 

"Au  revoir,  mon  colonel,  et  merc'i"  said 
Sergeant  Androuet,  and,  the  bandaging  being 
completed,  he  stood  up  and  saluted. 

He  said  to  himself:  "I  must  be  calm.  I 
must  control  myself.  Otherwise  I  shall  be  a 
baby  and  cry."  But  he  found  that  he  was 
strangely  weak,  and  in  spite  of  himself  the 
ignominous  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  The 
colonel,  seeing  what  was  amiss  turned  abruptly 
on  his  heel  and  left  the  room.  The  surgeon, 
with  a  sympathetic  pat  on  the  shoulder,  said: 

"There,  my  boy,  run  along.  That  train  to 
Paris  will  seem  to  travel  slowly,  hein?  Journeys 
are  long  when  there  is  some  one  waiting  for 
one  at  the  end." 

Paul  smiled  vaguely.  "Yes,"  he  faltered — 
"yes,  you  are  right.  .  .  ."  Then  he  added  in  a 
whisper:  "Colette,  she  will  be  waiting — yes, 
assuredly  she  will  be  waiting." 

He  staggered  dizzily  from  the  dressing- 
station.  His  head  pained  him — a  dull,  rhyth 
mical,  pounding  pain  that  kept  time  to  the  beat 
of  the  pulses  in  his  temples.  The  ground 
seemed  not  quite  steady  under  his  feet. 


354  THE   RETURN 

"I  must  appear  to  be  perfectly  well,"  he  re 
flected;  "otherwise  they  will  not  let  me  go.  They 
will  send  me  to  the  hospital  and  then  I  shall  not 
see  Colette.  Of  course,  there  is  really  nothing 
the  matter  with  me — only  a  touch  of  fever, 
perhaps,  from  the  wound.  It  will  pass  in  the 


air." 


Ahead  of  him  was  a  two-mile  walk  to  the 
railway  station — a  walk  at  first  across  shell- 
pitted  country  and  then  along  a  road  which  the 
German  artillery  did  not  neglect.  Fortunately 
a  passing  ambulance  caught  him  up  on  this  road 
and  offered  him  a  lift.  He  sat  hunched  up  on 
the  floor  of  the  driver's  seat,  glad  of  the  op 
portunity  to  rest  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"You  go  to  the  base  hospital?"  queried  the 
driver. 

"No,"  answered  Sergeant  Androuet — "No. 
I  go  home.  I  go  home — to  Colette." 

"Feinard/"  said  the  driver  enviously.  "How 
long  leave  of  absence  did  they  give  you?" 

"Two  weeks." 

"H'm.  Two  weeks?  Well,  my  friend,  in 
case  you  can  during  those  two  weeks  spare  a 
minute  from  your  Colette,  will  you  render  me 
a  service?" 

"But  yes." 

"In  the  rue  Taitbout  there  lives  a  little  wo 
man  called  Blanche — Blanche  Dorain.  Will 
you  go  to  her  some  day  and  merely  say  that 
Henri  is  well  and — ah,  zut,  you  know  what  to 
say!  What  you  would  have  me  say  to  your 


THE   RETURN  355 

Colette  were  I  in  your  place.  Will  you  do 
that?" 

"Yes — certainly — I  understand." 

"Merci,  mon  vieux.  That  will  give  me  great 
pleasure — and  her  too,  perhaps.  Sapristi,  one 
is  not  always  certain.  .  .  .  Here  we  are  at  the 
station.  Good  God,  how  content  I  should  be 
to  be  going  to  Paris  with  you !  A  little  dinner 
at  the  Taverne  Tourtel,  hein,  and  two  good 
seats  in  the  balcony  of  the  Olympia !  Like  that 
one  lives.  Ah,  well,  when  this  sacred  war  is 
over.  .  .  .  Au  revoir,  mon  vieux.  Bonne 
chance!" 

The  train  for  Paris  was  already  made  up  and 
was  on  the  point  of  leaving;  but  Sergeant  An- 
drouet  managed  to  find  himself  a  seat  in  a  com 
partment  of  the  third  class,  between  a  priest  and 
a  poilu,  who,  like  Paul  himself,  was  returning 
home  on  a  furlough.  God  knows,  had  it  been 
necessary,  Paul  would  have  lain  uncomplain 
ingly  on  the  floor.  Paris  and  Colette  and  two 
weeks  of  blessed  rest!  He  closed  his  eyes  that 
he  might  the  better  conjure  up  her  face.  He 
had  the  feeling  that  if  he  thought  of  nothing 
but  her  the  pain  in  his  head  would  be  soothed 
and  the  everlasting  throbbing  cease,  as,  of 
course,  it  was  going  to  cease  when  actually  she 
should  lay  her  cool  hands  across  his  brow.  Her 
cool  hands — her  cool,  gentle,  caressing  hands! 
And  her  eyes  that,  when  he  was  with  her,  fol 
lowed  him  anxiously,  as  if  eager  to  anticipate 
his  every  desire.  No  one  had  ever  cared  for 


356  THE   RETURN 

him  like  that  before;  no  one,  he  thought,  had 
ever  been  loved  as  he  was  loved  by  Colette. 
The  knowledge  of  it  had  given  him  confidence, 
had  caused  him  to  hold  his  head  high,  had  made 
a  man  out  of  him  who  was  yet  a  boy. 

The  train  stopped  with  a  cruel  jerk  and  he 
lifted  his  head  and  opened  his  eyes.  He  found 
that,  for  some  reason  or  other  his  vision  was 
blurred,  as  if  he  were  looking  through  field- 
glasses  that  were  not  in  focus. 

"It  is  the  fever,"  he  reflected,  and  passed  a 
surreptitious  hand  across  his  eyes  in  a  vain  at 
tempt  to  clear  them.  Then,  for  he  was  still 
fearful  to  appear  ill,  he  turned  and  addressed 
the  priest  as  cheerfully  as  possible. 

"Do  you  know  when  we  may  expect  to  arrive 
at  Paris?"  he  asked. 

The  priest  smiled  slightly. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  in  the  hands  of  God. 
Also  it  depends  on  how  often  we  have  to  stop 
to  allow  troop  trains  to  pass  on  their  way  to 
the  front.  You  are  impatient?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul,  "I  have  not  been 
home  in  eighteen  months — and  there  is  Co 
lette." 

"Your  wife?"  inquired  the  priest  sym 
pathetically. 

Paul  flushed.  How  senseless  of  him  to  have 
blurted  out  her  name  to  strangers !  What  busi 
ness,  after  all,  was  it  of  theirs? 

"She  is  to  be  my  wife,"  he  answered  very 
proudly. 


THE   RETURN  357 

"Excellent !  Permit  me  to  felicitate  you,  my 
son.  She  will  be  rejoiced  to  see  you;  and  I  am 
certain  that  that  head  of  yours  will  heal  more 
rapidly  when  it  is  she  who  does  the  bandaging. 
We  French  need  God  and  a  woman.  When 
we  believe  in  both  we  become  heroic." 

The  train  started  again,  and  Paul,  making 
himself  as  comfortable  as  he  could,  closed  his 
eyes  and  slept.  Sheer  physical  fatigue  had  con 
quered  the  feverish  wakefulness  of  his  mind. 
But  from  time  to  time  his  lips  moved  in  his  sleep 
and  the  priest  and  the  poilu  heard  him  whisper : 
"Colette  !"  And  the  priest  and  the  poilu  looked 
at  each  other  and,  understanding,  smiled  in 
sympathy. 

Ill 

THE  train  came  clicking  over  the  switches 
into  the  Gare  de  TEst  at  about  half  past  eleven 
that  night.  Neither  the  cessation  of  motion  nor 
the  unwonted  clamor  that  poured  in  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  compartment-door,  sufficed  to  rouse 
Sergeant  Androuet  from  his  heavy  sleep.  So 
the  priest  finally  shook  him  gently  by  the  arm. 

"We  are  in  Paris,  my  son,"  said  he. 

Paul  opened  vague,  bewildered  eyes. 

"Is  it  already  the  hour  of  the  attack?"  he 
muttered. 

"No,  no,"  the  priest  reassured  him.  "Do 
you  not  know  where  you  are  ?  You  are  in  Paris, 
where  there  is  no  more  fighting.  You  have  only 
to  rest." 


358  THE   RETURN 

"Oh,"  said  Paul.    "I  ask  pardon.    I  forgot." 

Then,  as  memory  came  back  to  him,  he 
started  eagerly  to  his  feet,  the  glow  of  anticipa 
tion  in  his  face. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said  happily,  "to  be  sure! 
I  remember  now.  We  are  in  Paris !  Ah,  mon 
pere,  that  is  wonderful,  is  it  not?" 

But  his  very  eagerness  served  to  delay  his 
departure,  for,  as  he  stood  erect,  a  great  wave 
of  dizziness  swept  over  him  and  he  was  forced 
to  clutch  at  the  priest  for  support. 

"Doucement,  doucement"  said  the  latter, 
and  eased  him  into  the  seat.  "You  must  not 
be  in  too  great  haste.  Remember,  you  have 
two  weeks." 

"I  am  better  now,"  said  Paul  after  an  in 
terval.  "It  is  my  head  that  plays  me  queer 
tricks." 

"Take  my  arm,  then,  down  the  platform,  and 
we  shall  see  how  you  are  when  you  reach  the 
street.  Are  you  expecting  anyone  to  meet  you  ? 
No?" 

"No.  I  did  not  have  time  to  inform  Co 
lette.  It  was  so  unexpected,  my  departure. 
.  .  .  But  she  will  be  at  home  waiting  for  me. 
Come,  mon  pere,  let  us  walk  faster.  She  will 
be  waiting." 

They  came  out  of  the  station  to  the  Place  de 
Strasbourg,  unlighted  save  by  a  thin  moon  and 
a  dozen  stars.  The  air  was  cold  and  heavy,  and 
filled  with  that  indefinable  scent  of  the  city. 

"The  good  Paris  air,"  said  Paul,  breathing 


THE   RETURN  359 

deep.  "Already  I  am  well.  You  have  been 
very  kind,  mon  pere,  but  now,  you  see,  I  am 
quite  myself  again.  I  go  to  the  Pantheon  dis 
trict.  Do  you  come  my  way?" 

The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  replied  dubiously,  "I  go  toward 
Les  Batignolles.  But  you  are  sure  you  need 
no  further  help?" 

Paul  laughed — overexcitedly,  perhaps,  a  lit 
tle  wildly — and  raised  his  arms  in  triumph. 

"Help?"  he  echoed.  "Do  you  not  see  that 
I  am  strong!  And  in  a  while  I  shall  be  twice 
as  strong — for  I  go  to  see  Colette." 

"Then,"  said  the  priest,  "adieu.  And  may 
God  bless  you  both." 

"He  will,"  answered  Paul. 

They  parted,  Paul  following  the  Boulevard 
de  Strasbourg  and  the  priest  striking  off  at  the 
Boulevard  de  Magenta. 

The  streets  were  almost  deserted — the  des 
olate,  hushed  streets  of  a  sleeping  city.  But 
an  occasional  search-light  flashed  a  strip  of  gold 
across  the  sky  to  prove  that  there  were  some 
who  .did  not  sleep.  In  a  near-by  courtyard  a 
cat  screamed  horribly,  like  a  child  crying  in 
pain.  At  the  sound  Paul  stopped,  his  knees 
shaking,  all  his  vaunted  strength  gone  from 
him. 

"Nerves,"  he  murmured — "nerves.  I  must 
not  let  that  happen  again.  I  am  foolish.  I, 
who  have  slept  while  the  Boches  turned  loose 
all  their  artillery,  I  start  and  tremble  because 


360  THE   RETURN 

a  cat  howls  in  the  night.  .  .  .  Ah,  now  when 
my  heart  starts  to  beat  again  the  pain  comes 
back  in  my  head.  That  is  annoying;  I  had 
thought  myself  rid  of  it." 

He  was  not  rid  of  it.  His  head  burned  as  if 
some  devil  had  bandaged  it  with  a  fillet  of  hot 
steel.  With  an  effort  he  resumed  his  march, 
now  on  the  Boulevard  de  Sebastopol.  In  the 
Place  des  Arts  et  Metiers  an  agent  de  police 
eyed  him  suspiciously  and  then  demanded  his 
name  and  regiment  and  a  look  at  his  furlough. 

uYou  are  out  late,  my  friend,"  he  said,  when 
these  formalities  had  been  completed. 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul,  "I  am  late.  You  will 
pardon  me  if  I  hurry  along." 

When  he  reached  the  Seine  he  was  exhausted. 
He  paused  on  the  Quai  and,  leaning  his  elbows 
on  the  stone  balustrade,  put  his  face  in  his 
hands.  His  hands  were  very  cold;  or  was  it 
his  face  that  was  very  hot? 

Looking  across  at  the  He  de  la  Cite,  he  saw 
lights  glowing  dimly  through  the  stained-glass 
windows  of  Notre-Dame. 

"I  will  go  in  and  rest  a  while, "  he  said. 
"Otherwise  I  shall  never  be  able  to  reach  the 
rue  Clotilde  and  Colette."  And  then  he  re 
membered  the  day  on  which  he  had  been  called 
to  the  colors,  when  he  and  Colette  had  knelt 
in  the  cathedral,  he  enthusiastic  and  confident 
and  heroic  in  scarlet  and  blue,  and  she — well, 
she  had,  in  spite  of  herself,  not  been  able  to 


THE   RETURN  361 

share  all  his  confidence,  and  he  had  caught  her 
crying,  silently  and  secretly.  .  .  . 

It  happened  that  midnight  mass  was  being 
celebrated  in  Notre-Dame  —  a  quiet,  solemn 
mass,  attended  mostly  by  soldiers  in  uniform 
and  by  women  in  black.  Sergeant  Androuet, 
with  a  stained  bandage  around  his  head,  and 
his  horizon-blue  uniform  caked  with  mud,  did 
not  find  himself  out  of  place  in  that  congrega 
tion.  He  fell  into  a  seat  at  the  back  of  the 
church,  near  the  Porte  de  la  Vierge.  Grad 
ually  the  heavy  odor  of  the  incense  and  the 
monotonous  chanting  of  the  priests  exerted 
their  soothing  effects;  a  great  drowsiness  came 
upon  him,  the  lights  grew  dim  through  his  half- 
closed  eyes,  his  head  sank  forward,  his  arms 
relaxed  and  drooped  to  his  sides,  and  he  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep — a  sleep  so  profound  and  so 
deep  that  it  was  akin  to  death.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  know  how  long  it  was  before  he 
was  aroused  by  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He 
looked  up,  rubbing  his  blurred  eyes.  The 
cathedral  was  in  darkness,  save  for  the  lights 
on  the  altar,  and  empty,  save  for  a  few  women 
who  had  remained  in  the  dim  corners  to  pray. 

Once  more  the  hand  pressed  his  shoulder, 
and  he  got  painfully  to  his  feet.  Then  he  real 
ized  that  it  was  a  woman  who  had  aroused  him; 
then,  peering  more  eagerly  into  her  face,  he 
knew  that  it  was  Colette. 

"Come,  Paul,"  she  said,  "the  mass  is  over 
and  we  will  go  home." 


362  THE   RETURN 

"Colette!"  he  whispered— "Colette I" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  I — it  is  Colette,  come 
to  fetch  you  home."  And  she  drew  his  arm 
through  hers  and  led  him,  tottering  and  dazed, 
to  the  door.  At  the  font  she  halted,  dipped 
her  hand  in  the  holy  water  and  offered  it  to  him. 
He  touched  his  fingers  to  it  and  crossed  him 
self. 

"There,"  she  said,  "that  is  well  done." 

Unconsciously  he  paused,  that  she  might  per 
form  the  act  for  herself;  but  she  shook  her  head 
at  him,  smiling  a  little. 

"No,"  she  said  quietly — "for  me  it  is  too 
late." 

They  went  out  and  down  the  steps. 

The  night  had  cleared,  the  wind  had  sub 
sided,  and  as  Paul  looked  up  he  saw  the  stars 
reeling  in  the  sky. 

"I  am  very  tired,"  he  said  plaintively,  like  a 
child.  "I  have  been  a  little  wounded,  Colette, 
and  I  am  very  tired.  I  want  so  much  to  rest." 

"It  is  not  far,  now,"  she  reassured  him,  "and 
when  we  arrive  you  shall  rest." 

"It  will  be  good  to  rest,"  he  sighed. 

Slowly,  with  great  difficulty,  they  proceeded, 
he  leaning  heavily  on  her,  she  supporting  him 
with  what  seemed  superhuman  strength. 

They  crossed  the  Boulevard  Saint  Germain 
at  the  Place  Maubert.  They  met  no  living 
thing.  They  were  so  alone  that  they  might  have 
been  crossing  a  desert  —  a  desert  flanked  by 
grim,  gray  walls. 


THE   RETURN  363 

"It  is  not  gay,  your  Paris,"  said  Sergeant 
Androuet.  And  he  repeated:  "It  is  not  gay. 
Is  it  that  every  one  is  dead?" 

"Not  every  one,"  she  answered. 

"You  are  still  in  the  rue  Clotilde?" 

She  hesitated,  but  he  did  not  notice  her 
hesitation.  Then  she  said:  "Yes,  you  will  find 
me  in  the  rue  Clotilde." 

"Alone?"  he  inquired 

She  shook  her  head. 

"There  is  a  sister  with  me — Sceur  Marie- 
Madeleine." 

"You  have  missed  me,  Colette  —  much?  — 
a  little?" 

"Much.    But  I  shall  be  alone  no  more.          ." 


IV 

AT  half  past  twelve  that  night  Soeur  Marie- 
Madeleine  rose  from  Colette's  bedside  to  renew 
the  candles  which  had  for  the  second  time 
burned  down  to  their  sockets.  She  was  weary 
from  the  long  watch,  and  more  than  once  her 
eyes  had  drooped  over  the  missal,  and  for  a 
space  she  had  thought  pityingly  of  the  dead  girl 
over  whom  she  was  watching.  She  felt  le  bon 
Dieu  would  be  very  kind  to  Colette. 

When  she  had  substituted  the  long  candles 
for  those  that  had  burned  low  and  had  resumed 
her  chair,  she  heard  the  concierge's  bell  ring 
through  the  quiet  house.  Presently,  she  heard 
the  click  of  the  opening  door  —  then  a  short 


364  THE   RETURN 

silence.  Then  laboring  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 
She  wondered  a  little  that  any  lodger  should  be 
returning  so  late  at  night,  for  at  that  hour  the 
authorities  did  not  encourage  people  to  be 
abroad  who  had  no  business  to  be. 

The  footsteps  continued  to  ascend,  grop 
ingly,  unsteadily — the  footsteps,  perhaps,  of  a 
drunken  man.  Soeur  Marie-Madeleine  opened 
her  missal  with  a  sigh.  Then  hastily  she  put 
the  book  aside.  The  lodger  had  lurched  to  the 
door  and  was  fumbling  with  the  knob.  She 
must  prevent  his  entrance  at  any  cost — it  would 
be  sacrilege  in  this  room  of  the  dead.  .  .  . 

Before  she  could  intervene  the  door  opened 
and  a  man  reeled  in — a  man  in  uniform,  with 
a  bandage  about  his  head;  a  young  man,  not  un 
handsome;  a  young  man  with  glazed  eyes  and 
burning  cheeks. 

uYou  must  not  enter — "  she  began,  and 
pointed  to  the  bed. 

Those  dim  eyes  of  his  followed  the  direction 
of  her  hand.  The  man  halted,  drew  himself 
up  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  stood  there 
an  instant,  erect,  staring. 

Then  he  held  out  his  arms  toward  the  dead 
girl. 

"Colette!"  he  cried— " Colette  !  I  am  going 
home  to  see  you !" 

He  fell  to  his  knees,  his  arms  sprawled  across 
the  coverlet.  His  body  shook  with  the  pain  of 
breathing.  Then,  quietly,  he  slipped  to  the 
floor  and  the  pain  of  breathing  ceased. 


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